


Merry fucking Christmas

by ImogenGotDrunk



Series: Fuck pride - holiday specials and gifts [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas Crack, Daily updates up until Christmas, Domestic shopping trips, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gavin is so done with his boyfriend, Gavin thinks Nines is James Bond, Gavin's dad is literally the best, Grief, Hand Jobs, Hank is Hank, Healing, Humour, M/M, Minor Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Public Sex, RK900 doesn't know about cats and Christmas trees, References to BDSM, Tina and Connor like Christmas, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 05:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17016540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenGotDrunk/pseuds/ImogenGotDrunk
Summary: There’s a little Christmas tree on R’s desk.What. The fuck.-Nine days of Christmas shenanigans with Gavin, R.K and the DPD.





	1. December 1st

There’s a little Christmas tree on R’s desk.

What. The fuck.

“R.”

“Gavin.”

“R.K.”

“Yes, Gavin?”

“R. Baby. Light of my fuckin’ life.” Gavin fixes his partner with the most unimpressed look he can muster; so unimpressed that he can feel his facial muscles straining with the effort. “What the fuck is that?”

R raises his eyes. Follows Gavin’s stare towards the green, piney travesty situated beside his terminal, and then looks back across their desks with a completely unchanged expression. “It’s a Christmas tree, Gavin,” and Gavin knows that fucking tone. A very, _very_ polite insult is coming, and he doesn’t even need to brace himself for it anymore, it’s natural as exhaling carbon fucking dioxide. “I do sometimes fear for your position as Detective. Your powers of observation are clearly quite out of check if you cannot recognise a simple Christmas tree.”

“Shitbird…” Gavin takes a really deep breath. Holds it for a second, and then lets it out in a frustrated rush, “what the fuck is it doin’ there?”

His partner's brows furrow slowly, turning those steely eyes to a narrow, confused squint. “It’s December, Gavin.”

He throws his arms up in the air, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” and he narrowly misses knocking the picture of Tina, R and himself that’s been on his desk since his birthday onto the floor.

“It’s December _first_ ,” and yeah, thanks, R, thanks so much, that clarifies absolutely fucking _nothing_. “I was led to believe that decorations are a common addition to one’s personal spaces in the workplace, in order to contribute to the celebration of a national holiday.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Gavin has a headache and it’s only eight-thirty. “Only complete _assholes_ start celebrating Christmas on the first fuckin’ day of December, baby.”

“Officer Miller has had tinsel around his terminal since the twenty-ninth of November, and you can hardly claim _him_ , of all people, to be such.”

Gavin whips around in his seat, and sees for himself, in a neat rectangle of betrayal, the red and green border of itchy tinsel bullshit around Chris’s monitor. What’s fucking worse is that now there’s a Santa hat carefully perched over one corner of the screen.

“You’re all fuckin’ crazy,” he announces loudly, although the most reaction he gets is an indulgent snort from his boyfriend.

And an, “I’m with you,” from somewhere behind him.

A-ha! At least one person around here has his fucking back. “ _Thank_ you,” and Gavin waves an outstretched arm towards Anderson, bringing R’s attention to the only other _sane_ person in the bullpen. “You tell ‘em, Anderson. It’s too fuckin’ early, right?”

“Way too fuckin’ early,” and Gavin never thought he’d say it in a million fucking years, but thank God for Fuckwad Anderson. “You should see my goddamn house, Reed. You think _you’ve_ got it bad? There’s wreath on my fuckin' door.”

That poor bastard. “What the fuck is wrong with these freaks?”

“Tell me about it.”

“The second December hits, everyone loses their fuckin’ minds.”

“And fashion senses, apparently.”

Gavin would point out that _Hank_ can hardly shit on someone else’s fashion sense, but he’s too distracted by the sight of Chen entering the building. Christmas tree earrings. Light-up shades with snowmen on the rims. A light-up Christmas jumper with little bells and Rudolph's red-nosed fucking face plastered across it is pulled over her uniform.

The cringes in Gavin’s stomach are physically starting to hurt.

“Ho, ho, ho, bitches. Happy December first!”

“Good morning, Miss. Chen.” If R’s taken aback by the sheer amount of flashing lights she’s decked herself out in, he valiantly makes no sign of it. “You look very festive.”

“Hell yeah I do! It’s nearly Christmas!”

“It’s nowhere fuckin’ _near_ Christmas!”

She ignores Gavin, grinning when she reaches their desks. She punches R lightly on the arm. “Cool Christmas tree, man! It’s nice to see you’re not a Grinch like this asshole.”

“Shut the fuck up. Just ‘cause I’m not a fuckin’ psychopath like you and Chris.”

“And Connor,” Anderson sees fit to add.

“And fuckin’ Connor.” And now his own boyfriend, apparently, Gavin’s brain mournfully supplies.

“Okay, Mr. and Mr. Grouch. Piss all over this joyous holiday. See if it'll stop me, because newsflash: it won't.” Tina glances between Gavin and Hank, “And just so you both know, me and Connor bought matching jumpers this weekend,” she warns, patting Gavin’s shoulder in commiseration when she rounds past his chair, “and they sing Silent Night, Jingle Bells _and_ We Wish You a Merry Christmas when you press a button on the sleeve. So enjoy _that_ when he comes into work tomorrow, because I sure as shit will.”

Gavin’s going to fucking resign. “I hate you.”

Tina chuckles, and calls back over her shoulder, “Good luck tellin’ him about the apartment, Ironman,” as she takes her seat opposite Chris.

It takes Gavin a second – one long, sickening second of having to watch Chris and Chen high five over their terminals – before her words actually sink in.

He turns very slowly and very carefully back towards R. “What the fuck have you done to the apartment?”

His partner replies with a thin, merciless smile over the edge of his monitor, and Gavin’s in a cold sweat for the rest of December first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to write some short, Christmassy adventures with Gavin and co, so since I'm now off work for a while over the holidays, I thought I'd try and write a little something every day until Christmas!


	2. Tinsel

“You absolute fuckin’–”

“In my defence, I did not expect–”

“– _moron_ , what the fuck did you think–”

“–I did not expect her to be quite so violent–”

“–what did you think was gonna happen, R? Did I not show you like a thousand fuckin’ memes about this? I thought you were supposed to absorb information or some shit, not ignore good fuckin’ sense when I’m nice enough to fuckin' share it.”

R takes a moment to pause, and his head tilts Gavin’s way, expression _oozing_ dispute. “By that, I assume you’re referring to the entire evening we spent watching cats savaging Christmas trees and other such household objects, instead of completing the case files for the Mirestone robbery.”

“Yeah,” Gavin retorts, pointedly gesturing to the chaos before them, “as prior fucking warning so that _this_ wouldn’t happen!”

 _This_ , put simply, is Mia. _This_ , put less simply, is Gavin’s _shit_ of a cat tangled in Christmas lights and decorative beads, and surrounded by at least a dozen fallen baubles. She looks very fucking pleased with herself, too; curled beneath the tree, delicately wiping one of her adorable, pine-covered paws behind her ear and purring in the midst of her destruction.

“I may have made a _slight_ oversight.”

Gavin stares sidelong at him. “You fuckin’ _think_?”

“I suppose we ought to extract her–”

“Woah, hey– no, no, no, not a fuckin’ chance,” and Gavin pulls R back by the arm when he goes to take a step forward, because the guy’s fucked up, sure, but Gavin doesn’t want him to fucking _die_. “Are you crazy? She'll claw you to fuckin' ribbons, you gotta let her come out on her own.”

R looks conflicted for several seconds, before deciding to make at least one good decision that day and take Gavin’s advice. They leave Mia amongst her Christmassy slaughter-fest, and Gavin makes a B-line to the fridge, praying that there’s _at least_ two bottles of beer on the shelf.

In truth, Gavin had been expecting _a lot_ worse. Lights strung around the rooms or everything he owns wrapped in Christmas paper, maybe, because R’s a fucking troll. And when he commits to something, he never goes half-assed. Which is great most of the time, don’t get him wrong. But the android has a dangerous sense of humour sometimes, and it’s usually at Gavin’s expense.

The decorations were actually pretty fucking tasteful. The one’s Mia hadn’t laid waste to, anyway. Gold and red theme, making Gavin’s apartment look way warmer, and way dorkier, than usual. There were little strings of red and gold beads outlining the posters in his bedroom and hanging around the living room in tactfully artistic places.

Trust an android to be decent at home decor, as well as everything fucking else. And at least there are no fucking bells.

The tree is the only real issue, if Gavin's being honest. And he’s sure it was a very well-decorated tree, before Mia had gotten her claws into it. “Where’d you get all this shit, anyway?” he asks, as he pops the cap on what is sadly the _only_ bottle he’d managed to scrounge up. “I sure as hell don’t keep any of this crap around here.”

“Officer Collins was kind enough to lend them to me, after I mentioned the appalling lack of decorations you have in storage.”

Ben. That fucking traitor. “Well, at least it explains why you were so fuckin’ late to work this morning. Knew givin’ you a key was a fuckin’ mistake,” he adds under his breath, feeling the novelty of R _actually_ _having a key to his place, holy shit_ flutter tentatively in his chest, not for the first time since the android had accepted it.

“At least Ben knew not to give you the hollow ones,” Gavin sighs, glancing back at the solid baubles and the pair of blue eyes watching him gleefully from between the lowest branches. “Takin’ a cat to get stitched up from bauble-related trauma would just be fuckin’ embarrassing.”

“I would not have accepted them otherwise,” R assures, because of course he fucking wouldn’t have. R loves that little terror to death. Gavin still swears his LED was red for two fucking days when Mia knocked a glass onto her tail and made this pitiful fucking noise. It probably hadn’t even hurt that bad, but Gavin knew that crafty bitch would do anything for R’s attention. And it had worked, to her credit.

Gavin collapses on the couch beside R, shrugging back into the cushions, where the android is sitting all prim and proper, as usual. Gavin slouches sideways until they’re shoulder to shoulder, and he gives R’s knee a little pat. “It was a nice idea, babe. But you’re still a fuckin’ nutjob.”

“Perhaps.” R’s head gently rests against his hair. “Do you truly dislike celebrating Christmas?”

The question catches him off-guard. Shit, is that how he’s been acting all day? “Fuck no! Christmas is great. I just… it’s only been December for a hot minute, actual Christmas is still forever away. I don’t get all the hype.”

“I see.”

Gavin hesitates, before he adds, “Maybe it’s ‘cause everyone’s always so fuckin’ happy. Weirds me out.”

“In what way?”

He shrugs, jostling R’s shoulder as he does so. “I dunno. I guess… it’s just a holiday, y’know? Like Thanksgiving, or New Years or whatever. The world’s still the same shitty place, but as soon as it’s December, everyone just seems to forget it, like they’re suddenly livin’ on a different planet. But crime’s still a thing, poverty’s still a thing, and I just…” He hesitates again, wondering if he’s making any fucking sense at all. Gavin’s never been good at explaining his thought-process behind these things. He just… _feels_ , and it’s hard to put into words a lot of the time. “I can’t switch off like that. Nothin’ changes just ‘cause it’s Christmas, but everyone always acts like things are better, like they can just put all their problems on hold and use Christmas as an excuse for everythin’. Like, ‘ _hey, haven’t you been in debt all year, why are you so fuckin’ cheery all of a sudden?’ ‘Cause it’s Christmas!’_ Y’know? I just… I just don’t get it.”

R hums, and the vibration is comforting against the side of Gavin’s head. “I’ll admit, I do find the sentiment itself quite confusing. And statistically speaking, the crime rates will undoubtedly increase throughout the month, so I admit I’m not fondly awaiting  _that.”_

Gavin smirks as he takes another sip of beer. “Always fuckin’ happens this time of year. Like I said, Christmas is a great excuse for crime. ‘ _Hey, fellow criminal, wanna rob that store? Oh no, don’t mind the cops, they won’t fuckin’ mind, it’s–”_

 _“‘It’s fucking Christmas,’”_ R finishes for him, chuckling and leaning against Gavin and being fucking perfect. “I see your point. Truthfully, I do not _understand_ the ‘hype’, as you call it. I just assumed that the celebrations began when December did. Though that, too, may have been an oversight.”

“Well, I don’t fuckin’ blame you,” Gavin confesses, “havin’ Tina and Chris around the office. Those fuckers love Christmas.”

“Do they? I couldn’t tell.”

Gavin snorts, “Smartass,” and shuffles closer until he can thread his fingers through R’s. They sit in silence for a moment, and Gavin finds himself smiling as he takes in the various red and gold additions to his apartment. And eventually, Mia stalks out from beneath the tree and comes to curl up on R’s thigh. She gets little flecks of dark green pine all over his pants. _Atta girl_. “They’re nice decorations, babe.”

“So, you do not wish me to take them down?”

“Nah, fuck it. Too much effort.”

“I agree.”

“And Mia seems to like the tree, so. I guess that can stay, too.”

“Indeed.”

Gavin runs a thumb over R’s knuckles, before rising to stretch and head to the bathroom. “No more fuckin’ decorations, though, okay? There’s only so much festive cheer one man can take.”

“As you say.”

“Damn right, as I fuckin’ say.” He nudges the bathroom door, and when it strains to open against something he can't yet see, he hears bells. He hears fucking bells. Tinkling, little bells, tinkling away like little fucking taunts, and Gavin scrambles for the light switch. Light floods the space, and there are about a hundred bouts of red tinsel hanging around the room. Itchy, sparkling tinsel, sparkling in Gavin’s face. The bells, neatly and consecutively spaced, are dangling from the bouts closest to the door, for maximum effect. There’s so much tinsel, in fact, that he can’t even step into the fucking room.

“Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that Officer Collins had quite the array of tinsel in his possession, as well. I said we wouldn’t mind taking some of it off his hands.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Yes, I thought you might.” He sounds fucking delighted; sat there stroking Mia like he’s a villain in some cheesy Bond movie.

“You fucking _psychopath_ , how did you even _do_ this?”

“That is for me to know, and for you to navigate if you wish to use the facilities.”

Gavin takes a deep breath to remind himself that, really, this is his own fault; he’s the one that fell in love with him, he’s the one who has to deal with him and his bullshit. And he starts tearing down the tinsel like a man possessed.

“Happy December first, Gavin.”

“Fuck off!”

“ _Mrrrow_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! Just in case you don’t know about the Tumblr Log Off protest today
> 
> = in short, Tumblr users are logging off for 24 hours in support of artists and creators whose NSFW content has been flagged for absolutely no good reason – they are talented people who give us joy, tears and a lot of laughs, and they don’t deserve the censorship and other bullshit that Tumblr has been dishing out recently.


	3. Bauble

There have been enough movies warning about the possibilities of an android uprising. Machines taking over their jobs, their houses, their lives. Making humanity’s choices null and obsolete.

None of them had even come close to suggesting that this would happen through a slow and strategic introduction of Christmas decorations in Hank Anderson’s home.

The thing about Connor is, he’s subtle.

It had started with a wreath on the front door.

Nothing wrong with that in principle, though from the way Hank had complained about it, the rest of the DPD probably thought otherwise. But at the end of the day, it was one fucking wreath; newly bought, fake green holly and red berries fashioned into a perfect circle and placed neatly in the centre of the entryway.

Hank could live with that.

Then came the tinsel. It was all scraggy and fraying along the edges from age, and Hank had kept it in the garage, dumped in an old cardboard box since… just _since_.

But on December second, a single, solitary strand of gold tinsel was suddenly framing the old Taxi poster beside the TV.

And Hank hadn’t commented. He had no reason to. It was one scrawny bit of tinsel, mounted around one fucking poster. He had greeted Sumo, gone into the bedroom to change, and said nothing.

On December third, more tinsel had mysteriously appeared, and was boardering the rest of the posters. Fine. That was fine.

By December fourth, it was also framing the photographs, the cupboards in the kitchen. The fucking television. Hank had gritted his teeth, and said nothing at all. He’d glued his eyes to the TV, and had managed to ignore the way the light from the screen had caught on the flecks of shiny, Christmassy-red paper.

On December fifth, Connor was listening to Christmas music on the radio while he made dinner. That was something Hank couldn’t _entirely_ ignore, granted. Connor – long-legged, goofy-looking Connor – in a pair of his old sweatpants and an oversized jumper, swaying slightly to a crappy old Christmas song and trying to learn the words under his breath. Hank had been all right with that.

And then he’d noticed that the jumper had the word **_HO HO HO_**   all over it, and he’d promptly sagged down into the couch and taken a long, long sip of his beer.

Now it’s December sixth. Hank had come home, on edge and with damn good reason to be, to find the Christmas tree – which had, like the tinsel, been deposited in the garage, presumed never to be seen again – waiting for him in the living room, standing proud and tall for the first time in four years.

Connor was sat cross-legged beneath it, Sumo’s head on his thigh and an overflowing box of Christmas decorations to his left. At the sight of it all, the subtlety that Hank had appreciatively been able to live with until then had broken with a _snap_ like a fucking Christmas cracker.

Jesus fucking Christ. “Con.”

“Welcome home, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t _welcome home Lieutenant_ me, Connor, what the fuck is that doin’ in here?”

Connor had tilted his head and glanced up at the tree, as though Hank could be asking about anything fucking else. “I’m putting up the Christmas tree.”

Hank grunted, “Oh you are, are you,” because it still catches him off guard, sometimes. How to-the-fucking-point Connor can be. He’s frank. He’s _honest_. And not that Hank will admit it in a thousand years, but it makes the android leagues more decent than any human he's ever known. Not enough goddamn honestly in this world. “Well, I got some news for you, Con. We don’t do that here, all right? The tinsel and all that other crap is fine, but just… that’s too much. Get it outta here.”

Connor’s LED had cycled yellow for a brief and contemplative moment. And then he'd said, “All right, Hank.”

And if Hank had had a freaky LED of his own, he’s pretty certain it would’ve been yellow, too. “All right?” he’d repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. The detective in him was suspicious and unsettled. “What, that’s it? No backtalk, no arguing? Just, _all right?”_

Connor’s brow had furrowed. It’s one of those puppy-looks he gets when he’s genuinely confused about something. “This is your house, Hank. If you’d prefer not to have the Christmas tree in here, then it has no business being in here.”

Honest. _Fuck_. “No, no, no, hold up for a minute, hold on,” Hank had put a hand out when Connor began to stand and reach towards the tree, “it’s… shit,” and he’d cursed because it’s been a year; Connor’s been here with him for an entire, goddamn year, and it shouldn’t still have felt that awkward to spit it out when he needed to. “It ain’t my house, Con, it’s ours. You gotta stop saying that it’s not. Drives me nuts. All right?”

Hand lowering back to his side, Connor had given him that pleased little smile which does things to Hank’s chest. Warm, disgusting things. “All right, Hank,” he’d repeated, much softer this time, and he’d started to pet Sumo’s head when the pest shuffled against his hip. “Would you still prefer the tree to go back in the garage?”

 _Yes_ , Hank had wanted to say. But after that, he wasn’t sure that it was a good idea. This is Connor’s home. Connor wants the tree in here. It’s just a fucking tree. “Ugh, give me fuckin’ strength, the darn thing can stay, just… don’t get pine needles everywhere, got it? There’s already enough fur in the fuckin’ carpet, we don’t need bits of tree as well.”

Connor had fucking _beamed_ , and he’d reclaimed his place between the tree and the decorations while Hank discarded his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and all of a sudden didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

Connor must have noticed, because he’d pointed out, “There are a lot of decorations, Hank. We could really use the help.”

Hank had scoffed, and raised an eyebrow over his shoulder from where he stood, idle and slightly lost, in the kitchen, “We?”

“Sumo and I,” Connor had confirmed, needlessly because they’re the only other fuckers here. “Only if you would like, of course.”

Yeah, the thing about Connor, Hank’s found throughout the past twelve months, is that he’s not just subtle. He’s _very_ _fucking_ subtle. And very fucking clever. He never pushes, not really. And he doesn’t outright manipulate. He always gives Hank the choice to back out. _Only if you would like, of course_. Negotiator, in-fucking-deed.

Goddamn it. “Fine.”

And that’s how Hank’s found himself, six days into December, sat beside Connor on the carpet; back straining whenever he leans into the box to grab another decoration, and his great lump of a dog switching between snoring on Connor’s knee and snoring on Hank’s.

It’s… it’s not that bad, truth be told. Hank’s not exactly having a blast, but he doesn’t want to put a gun to his head, either. And Connor’s quiet contentment is infectious as he, with great thought, places each little ornament or bell or bauble onto the branches. He’s far more painstaking with it than Hank is; Connor’s side of the tree is coordinated by colour and fucking size, and Hank’s not entirely sure whether the android even realises he’s doing it. Must be a built-in thing

Hank much prefers his own fucking side. His has _character_. And when he comes across his old Knights of the Black death bauble, signed by the goddamn drummer himself, he actually fucking chuckles. “Haven’t seen this thing in fuckin’ years. Forgot I even had it.”

He holds it out so that Connor can see it, when the android leans in; all curious eyes and controlled excitement because he’s seen that _Hank’s_ excited, and every time it happens, Hank swears his heart’s going to break out of his fucking ribcage, or give up and give out.

“Got this in twenty-twenty-eight. They only signed about a hundred of 'em around Christmas, and Fowler managed to snag one. This was a present from him, if you can believe that. Only decent gift the prick’s ever gotten me,” he adds, because Jeffrey’s a great guy, but he fucking sucks at buying shit for people. “He sticks to cards now, thank Christ. Expect a very formal _‘season’s greetings’_ from him before the twenty-fifth. He’s such an awkward fucker around Christmas.”

And Connor’s eyes turn warm – they always do, after he learns something new about Hank, and seriously, heart, ribcage, cardiac arrest – and he takes the bauble carefully from Hank’s hold, hanging it on one of the middle branches, veering more towards Hank’s side.

Hank rifles through decoration after trashy decoration. There are far too many to put up, and he tries vaguely to recollect where on Earth he got most of this shit, and _why_. There’s a larger bauble with the etching  ** _MERRY FUCKING X-MAS_**   around the width of it, which is a saving grace amongst the rest of the crap he’s found so far. Hank decides that _has_ to go up there.

There’s also a really poorly-made snowman figurine which Connor, for some fucking reason, takes an instant liking to. That goes on his side. There are a few tasteful little bells, which Hank allows to be hung. Sparingly. He will, however, absolutely _not_ allow the bows to be put on there. Tacky, twisted, _obnoxious_ things with a green and silver pattern across the laces. The line has to be drawn somewhere, and that’s where he’s fucking drawing it.

They’re getting close to scrounging the bottom of the barrel, and Hank’s just contemplating whether he could get away with hanging _another_ ornament with the word _fuck_ inscribed on it somewhere, when he sees what Connor’s holding.

A bauble. Plain red with tiny, white snowflakes patterned near the handle. In white, as well, the name **_COLE_**   written in block capitals along the side.

Connor’s LED is red as he holds it in one hand, eyes fixed on the letters. He glances around to see whether Hank’s noticed. Hank’s not sure what Connor would have done, if he hadn’t been looking at that exact moment. Put it back? Hung it anyway? He supposes that he won’t find out, because their eyes have met, and now it’s a _thing_ , and Hank finds himself clearing his throat and weakly gesturing towards it.

“That, uh, yeah, that was his first Christmas decoration,” he says, because what the hell else can he say. “Just one of those tacky, personalised things you get in gift shops. Y’know, where they have a hundred of ‘em with different kids’ names on. You think Cole’d be an easy name to find, think again.”

He stares at the bauble, half-hidden by Connor’s fingers. The tops of the **_O_**   and the **_L_**   are obscured, and the red is a stark contrast against Connor’s pale skin.

“But, uh, anyway, I found that and I figured, y’know. That it’d be a, uh, a neat gift.”

Connor nods, and smiles at the bauble slightly, as though he can fucking see Cole’s face when Hank had given it to him and told him he could put it anywhere he wanted on the tree. He’d put it beneath the star, so it could be seen from anywhere in the room.

“Did he enjoy Christmas?”

“What kid doesn’t enjoy Christmas,” Hank scoffs, but the sound is far rougher than it should be. He clears his throat again, “Yeah, he fuckin’ loved it. Presents, candy, what’s not to like. He, uh–” and Hank gestures to the tree when his mouth rebels against him and can’t seem to form the words for a second, “He used to like this, too. It was his favourite part, I think. Puttin’ up the tree and all that shit. Setting up the lights, lookin’ through all the decorations.”

Hank had never wanted to do any of it again, not without Cole there to tell him he was doing it wrong, and listing what Hank could and couldn’t hang on the tree. Hank never thought he’d do this again, and Connor doesn’t push or manipulate, but he always makes Hank fucking braver somehow and he wishes his son could have met him.

“Cole, uh, he… he would’ve loved this. He would’ve... H-He would’ve loved you,” and Connor pushes close when Hank’s voice begins shaking; nose pressed to his cheek, and a hand gently threading into his hair, and Hank leans into him. He doesn’t get to have Cole. He’ll never get to again, but he gets to have this. He gets to have Connor, and his hands, and his negotiating, and he gets to talk about his son without feeling alone for the first time in four years. And talking about it feels real now; like a physical thing. Cole isn’t here anymore, and Connor is, and Hank gets to say that he wishes they could have met, because he knows they would have loved each other. And he says it, “I wish you could’ve met him,” chocking past the tightness in his throat, and he gripping the fabric of his own hoodie against Connor’s arm, he says it. “You would’ve loved him, too.”

And the unchanging, circular blue glow at the side of Connor’s head, swimming in Hank’s vision, tells him that Connor’s already certain of it. “I know, Hank.”

They finish the tree. It’s mismatched, and messy, and makes no fucking sense. But, somehow, they decide that it’s finished. The star that Connor places on top is golden and slightly crooked; two of the five corners are bent out of shape, and it takes a few attempts before it holds steady. But eventually it stays put, and they stand back to admire their work. Hank doesn’t really know what to say. It looks awful, in all fucking honesty.

But Connor, after a moment of taking it all in, remarks, “It has character,” and Hank barks a laugh, and plants a kiss against his hair.

They put Cole’s name beneath the star, in view of the whole room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little less upbeat than the previous chapters, but this is for everyone who’s lost someone close to them, or knows someone who has <3 Take care of yourselves, and I hope you get to spend the holidays surrounded by the people you love.


	4. It's their thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very North-heavy chapter, because I love her.

North needs a break. Things at home are getting too intense.

Markus is a kind, level-headed and scrupulous man. A just and fair leader. And he owns half of North’s heart, figuratively speaking, and he always will. But when it comes to Simon, she’s noticed that Markus’s careful self-restraint begins to pull taut; straining for a brief and pensive moment, before it snaps completely. Simon’s always had that strange power over him. It’s probably those sad, blue eyes of his. North’s willpower can hold against them. Markus’s defences, however, are not _quite_ so formidable.

Simon wants to decorate New Jericho for Christmas. North has to leave.

It’s something she knew she’d eventually face. There’s no avoiding it when one of them is a domestic home model. It means family trips into the city, huddles on the couch with no space between the three of them, doing special and surprising things for one another that makes the recipient feel loved and included. North’s still getting used to that, and she likes it, for the most part.

And Markus, of course, has spent time in that kind of environment, with Mr. Manfred. Decorating the house for Christmas probably feels natural for him, too.

North doesn’t mind. Not really. She probably sounds cynical, and she doesn’t mean to. She’s trying to cut back on that, now that androids have claimed their hard-earned freedom. She wants her idiots to be happy. So she wants them to decorate the house, if that will make them so.

But she doesn’t want to contribute; to stick around for the merry cheer and the soft, _soft_ smile Simon will give when the deed is done and the house is transformed into a cosy, Christmassy grotto. It’s not North’s scene, and her idiots will understand.

She goes to see R.K. It’s their thing.

“I was–” He narrowly avoids her boot to his face, twisting out of reach before swiftly striking out a leg in retaliation. North dodges, barely. “–surprised, to get your message. Trouble in paradise?”

“Just holiday bullshit. I left them to it.” North shakes her head, “Not my scene,” and she aims another fist towards his face. She has to jump on tiptoes slightly, being a head shorter.

“I see,” is his reply, and North knows she doesn’t have to say anything more. He expects nothing else and he never does. R.K’s calm is always welcome, and it’s infectious. It bleeds into her when she needs it, like replenishing thirium, in a way; that slow and soothing feeling of renewed vitality spreading through her wires and biocomponents.

“How about you, anyway? How are you faring with the festivities? Must be interesting at the DPD,” and North would smirk, but she forgets to when she has to bring both arms up to shield her face. “I hear cops go kind of nuts at Christmas.”

“Some,” and she knows exactly who R.K’s mind has wandered to. He gets this little curl at the corner of his mouth, unintentionally, as he feigns to the right and catches her shoulder in a sharp jab because she’s not focusing. North’s always unsure whether he knows he’s smiling or not, whenever he speaks about Detective Reed. “Others are less receptive to the festivities than I would have expected.”

“What, your man doesn’t like the holiday?”

“He doesn’t understand it,” R.K clarifies, although his tone is fond. As far as North can tell, there isn’t a thing Detective Reed could do or be that would change the android’s opinion of him. R.K is every bit as gone on him as North is on her idiots. “Christmas is a challenging time for the DPD. While most revel in the celebrations–” and North does smirk, this time, because she manages to kick one of his legs out from under him, making him stumble. Seeing R.K stumble is a very pretty sight. “Some like Detective Reed find little joy in the time of year. In larger cities, December and January see the highest crime rates of the year, after all.”

“I suppose you and your man’ll be too occupied at the station to have Christmas dinner at our house, then. I was going to invite you.” The comment, meant to throw him off enough to cut through his concentration, fails spectacularly. R.K only swipes a leg beneath her feet, so quickly that she’s on her back a second later. He stands over her, brow raised in disappointment of North’s apparently poor efforts to distract him.

“If that was intended to shock me–”

“I know. Bad joke. You’re not invited to shit.”

“You’d never be so hospitable.”

“And you’d never come to dinner with Markus. One of you’d end up with your pump on the floor.”

“I imagine so.” He offers a hand, and North accepts, shaking out her hair when she’s pulled back onto her feet. “Enough?”

“Enough.”

It’s been routine for them for months. It’s their thing. One of them will call, not needing an explanation or a reason, and they’ll meet here. North always used to come here alone, when Jericho had still been in view of the broken studio window. Only scraps of the old freighter are visible now, drifting on the water sometimes when a piece breaks off and floats up to the surface. It’s nostalgic, North supposes, but not sad. They’ve got New Jericho, now; somewhere where they’re truly free. The old freighter was more a refuge, somewhere to hide and curl up in some semblance of safety because they were scared.

New Jericho’s home, and no one’s scared anymore.

She and R.K sit beside one another in front of the window. There’s never been anything here, as far as North knows. The old building’s been abandoned for years; red bricks fading, graffiti all over the walls. If she had to guess, it might have been a dance or a fitness studio, or something similar. Fitting, she supposes, considering how often they spar here, and how often her ass has been beaten. Not that she minds. More often than not, she’s the one who calls, needing an escape for a few hours. And R.K always answers. North’s never had a friend like that, before.

“Does Connor ever talk about Jericho?”

If R.K is surprised by the question, it doesn’t show. “He told me it’s where he deviated. The rest, I know from you.”

North hums. Figures that Connor wouldn’t want to speak about it. She knows he’s not proud of what he was before Jericho had blown. She’s not afraid of him, not exactly; he’s obviously trying to do good by androids now. But it’s not easy to forget he was a deviant hunter, once upon a time.

She’s just glad R.K wasn’t activated during all that crap. North’s not sure how much of a difference two deviant hunters might have made.

“Still feels strange, seeing the horizon,” North says, taking in the golden shimmers coming off the water from the setting sun. Everything’s golden this time of day, and shining and bright. Jericho had always blocked most of the light that reached this window. “Markus never comes back here, you know. I think it reminds him that he couldn’t protect the old Jericho. He doesn’t let Simon come back, either.”

North knows R.K will let her talk. It’s their thing. She used to be wary, on guard. She didn’t do this kind of stuff; open up and talk things through, but once she’d started the first time, she couldn’t stop, and she kept waiting to be interrupted. It was an easy thing to expect, in Jericho, and especially around Josh. North butt heads with too many people far too often.

But R.K had just… been there. Listened. It was nice. It was what North had needed. What she still needs, sometimes.

“I think Markus thinks it’ll be too painful for him. But Simon’s stronger than that.”

“You would like to come back here with them.”

North hesitates, and then nods. She’s started now. No reason to stop. “I just wish Markus wouldn’t treat him like that, sometimes. Like he’s… fragile. I’ve known him since I came to Jericho, Simon’s a fighter, like the rest of us. I just…” She takes a deep, needless breath as she pauses again. But she knows she can tell R.K. Even if nothing else comes of it, she can tell him, out of everyone else. It’s their thing. “It’s that time of year where everyone acts like nothing’s happened, like everything’s perfect. But this time last year, we lost thousands of our people. I can’t forget that. _I_ _want_ to remember that.”

Simon probably would have hugged her. Markus probably would have taken her hand.

R.K doesn’t touch her. He stays exactly where he is, because he knows it’s what North needs right now. Because it’s their thing. “You want Markus to remember, as well.”

North closes her eyes, and nods. “I want him to stop being so afraid of remembering. It happened, we _saw_ it happen. And now they’re at New Jericho, decorating our house and acting like we’ve been free to do something as simple that our entire lives.”

She trails off, and R.K leans back on his hands beside her, considering. “Markus is an indecisive prick, in my opinion. You know this.”

North snorts, and it turns into a laugh, because only a bastard like R.K could make her laugh when she’s feeling so lost.

“But, and although it counters all respect I have for myself when I say it, he is not incompetent. And he cares a great deal for you, and for your Simon.”

And R.K is only ever honest. North suddenly has a stupid, overwhelming urge to cry; one she only just manages to hold back before he continues.

“Decorating New Jericho is important to them, and you are letting them do it. Old Jericho is important to _you_.” North glances at him, but he’s tactfully avoiding her gaze. He knows it would make her uncomfortable. He’s looking down at the wreckage of the freighter, instead, something meditative and reassuringly steady in his expression. “Explain this to Markus, Red, just as you have done with me. I believe he will understand. You are far better at this communication business than I,” he adds, and it might be teasing, because truthfully they’re _both_ terrible at talking about this crap.

But that’s when he reaches between them, and gives her hand a quick and gentle squeeze. Because he knows it’s what North needs. Because it’s their thing.

When she returns, New Jericho is lined with lights, and their home is gold and silver and blue. North sits her idiots down, and explains. And they listen, and Markus has this dumb, guilty look on his face that North doesn’t know whether to punch or kiss away, and it turns out that she can’t escape Simon’s soft smile after all, because it’s there the whole time she muddles, much less eloquently, through what she’d told R.K.

And Markus does take her hand, and Simon does hug her, and North doesn’t mind, because that’s _their_ thing.

And like R.K had said he would, because the smart son of a bitch always has to be right, Markus understands.

In the middle of December, New Jericho holds a vigil to honour what they’d lost over the course of the revolution. To remember how they got _here_ ; to a place where they can hold their own ceremonies, and own their own homes, and put Christmas lights through their own streets.

While Markus gives his speech, North stands beside Josh, and keeps Simon’s hand firmly in hers. And when it’s over, and her idiots are doing crowd control, North thinks it’s about time she says something that she hasn’t said before.

**_Thank you, Blue._ **

It’s not their thing. She knows that. They don’t thank one another. But North feels whole, and at peace for the first time in a long time, and in essence, it’s because of R.K. It’s _thanks_ to R.K. So she sends the message across the city.

And the response comes through, from wherever R.K is doing his job and saving the humans from their own stupidity.

**_You are welcome, Red._ **

And North decides that maybe _thank yous_ can be their thing, as well.


	5. Christmas party (Dance with me)

When Captain Fowler had asked whether they would be attending the DPD’s annual Christmas Party at City Hall, their answers had been as R.K expected.

“Certainly, Captain.”

“ _Hell_ no.”

And that, as the saying goes, had been that.

R.K inspects himself in the full-length mirror. He will do, he supposes, for a more formal event. Though he needn’t have bothered double checking at all. The way Gavin’s eyes rake over him appreciatively as he exits the bedroom tells R.K all he needs to know about his appearance.

“Lookin’ sharp, babe. You’ll be fighting ‘em all off by the end of the night.”

R.K hums in answer, gently shooing Mia away with one foot when she threatens to rub against the hem of his trousers. _Black_ trousers, white feline; never an ideal combination. “You’re certain you will not accompany me?”

It’s a last-ditch effort, though R.K heavily suspects by now that he will not succeed in convincing him. Gentle persuasion, inconspicuous manipulation, and even full-out bribery has not worked. He had not even agreed when R.K had let him come down his throat; Gavin shuddering and pleading with him while taut over the mattress, and the failure of _that_ , of all things, had spoken of precisely _how_ against this Christmas party business Gavin Reed must be.

Very much against it, he suspects, when the only response to his question is Gavin’s derisive snort.

“What, may I ask, do you find so disagreeable about the event? It has an open bar,” R.K reminds him, a persuasion tactic that he has already exhausted, to no avail. No harm in prodding once more, though, he supposes.

But Gavin is shrugging and scowling irritably on the couch, barefoot and huddled in sweatpants and one of R.K’s jumpers. No, it is doubtful that he will be going anywhere tonight. R.K resigns himself to the evidence before him.

But he would still like to know why. “Is it because of the people, I wonder, or is it the entire sentiment of the celebration that you despise?”

“ _Mrrrow_ ,” Mia warns from beneath him, and yes, a good point indeed, curiosity _did_ kill the cat. And Gavin’s looking more petulant by the minute, dangerously so. But prying is part of R.K’s protocol, and he has long since given up trying to override the urge when it presents itself.

“You may as well tell me,” R.K continues, idling by the kitchen counter to straighten his tie. Blue. Miss. Chen had said it would _bring out his eyes_ , whatever that was supposed to mean. “I’ll have likely forgotten by the time I reach the venue.”

“S’ the people,” Gavin mutters, mouth in a grimace and brows low over his forehead. It is entirely delightful, and R.K mourns the fact that he will not see it all dressed up in a nice suit this evening. “All it is is suckin’ up to a bunch of rich snobs so they’ll support the station for another year. Fuck ‘em,” and he stretches up, and then sprawls out back along the couch, completely horizontal. “We shouldn’t have to pander to old money just to be able to do our fuckin’ jobs. I went two years in a row, anyway, and it’s not fuckin’ compulsory, so fuck ‘em.” Then he angles his head and smirks over at R.K, “You have fun though, sweet talkin’ all those rich kids. Bet they’ll love you.”

“Indeed.” R.K is designed for social situations. Of course they will love him, because none of them will know he’s looking down on them. It’s simple socialisation with the upper classes. Flatter them, win them over, and keep all other opinions to oneself. “But yours is the only company I would truthfully welcome tonight. You know that.”

A slight twitch at the corner of Gavin’s mouth. A dark and delicious flush spreading up his neck. Ah, perhaps flattery is the way to go with detectives, as well. R.K has been going about this all wrong from the beginning.

Adapt, and move forward. “Gavin.” He takes sure steps towards the couch until he’s on his knees beside it and taking Gavin’s jaw in one hand, casting his gaze closer. And then he presses a long and slow kiss to his lips, trailing a thumb just barely down the line of his throat, and Gavin’s panting with heavy-lidded eyes by the time he pulls away. “I shall miss you terribly.”

“Then stay the fuck here,” Gavin negotiates, far too bluntly for it to be called negotiating at all, before pulling him by the tie into another kiss. His tongue runs over R.K’s bottom lip, trying to ease inside and tempt him closer, and R.K knows full-well that if this continues, he will end up on the couch and his suit will end up on the carpet. “R–”

“You know I will not stay,” he reasons, perfectly… reasonably. His codex is a little scrambled, his focus far too occupied with the way Gavin’s fingers thread around the tie, and the way his eyes flit between R.K’s mouth and the visible edge of his collarbone. “I have made a promise to be there, so I shall be there. Now,” and R.K moves his hand from Gavin’s jaw to rest on his shoulder instead. If he truly, truly does not wish to come, then R.K will not push. But he would like him to. He would like him to very much. “Will you get dressed and come with me? Or are you quite comfortable here for the evening?”

Gavin wavers. It’s clear, for a moment, that there is a strong probability he will say _yes_.

  
**_SCANNING………_**  
_**10%**_  
_**38%**_  
_**55%**_

  
“Fuck your party. I’m stayin’ here.”

  
**_SCAN COMPLETE_**

**_> 0% PROBABILITY<_ **

  
R.K tries not to let his disappointment show. “Very well.”

He gets back onto his feet in an unhurried motion, and once again straightens his tie. He did himself no favours with that kiss, really. The slight crease in the pale blue fabric will now no doubt remind him of Gavin’s mouth all evening.

“Would it make a difference if I said you would come with me if you loved me?”

“Fuck you, shitbird.”

“Understood.”

“And don’t forget your fuckin’ helmet. I don’t care if it messes up your hair.”

R.K chuckles, and he takes his jacket, and helmet, from the counter on his way to the door. He stoops to stroke Mia, who has been pacing by the door and making loud, irritated noises for the past few minutes at all the signs that he is leaving.

“Goodbye, Mia. Do keep an eye on him,” he adds, scratching the juncture of her tailbone and making her curve happily beneath his palm. “I know he can be sultry, but he’s the only one of you who can reach the food. Make sure to stay on his good side while I’m gone.”

“ _Mrrrruupp_ ,” she answers, low and fond, when he stands back up.

“What good side, indeed,” R.K adds, earning himself an unimpressed glare from the couch. He unlocks the door, “Have a good evening, my love.”

“Fuck off.”

And he closes it with a smile behind him.

***

“Always hated these fuckin’ parties.”

R.K glances sidelong at the Lieutenant. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, screw you,” but Hank is chuckling as he takes a short sip from his champagne flute. “Haven’t been to one of these in years, cut me some slack, all right?”

“My apologies, Lieutenant. I can see you are quite clearly on your best behaviour.” And it is not a false remark. Hank is every bit as neatly dressed as R.K himself, and his hair and beard have been trimmed for the occasion. He looks, in R.K’s unabashed opinion, extremely handsome. “I might even be tempted to admit that you clean up rather well.”

Hank snorts, “Stop flirtin’ with me, Terminator.”

R.K hardly takes the dismissal to heart. The signs of pleased embarrassment colouring the man’s face are telling enough in themselves.

The main chamber within City Hall is brightly lit; chandelier glimmering overhead and lights strung across the walls in festive succession. There is an orchestra situated in the corner, an array of tunes playing softly as several couples sway to the music. The rest are socialising, and R.K must say that he wasn’t expecting the turnout. Members of the DPD are few and far between, where the rest are, as Gavin had rightly claimed, high class citizens of the city. Politicians, businessmen, rich artists and aristocrats, in suits and long, flowing dresses that may have cost more than the DPD building itself.

R.K now understands why Gavin did not wish to make an appearance. This is not his kind of place, and R.K takes comfort in the thought of the man lay on his couch, comfortable and himself, with Mia nestled somewhere close by.

R.K thrives in new circumstances, and he is in his element here entirely. But the familiar image of Gavin’s apartment causes a small twinge of longing, somewhere deep in his chest.

“Reed couldn’t make it, huh?”

Hank is a good detective, but R.K wonders what exactly in his expression had given his train of thought away. “He could not. I doubt he would have enjoyed himself, anyway, had he been able to.”

“Wish _I_ couldn’t have made it,” Hank grumbles under his breath, and he accepts the elbow-jab to his arm with as much grace and dignity as he is capable. “Only thing anyone’s commented on so far is how _surprised_ _they are_ to see me. Fuckers,” and the Lieutenant finishes his glass in one, thorough gulp. “Where the hell is Connor, anyway. Told him not to leave me here.”

“I believe…” and it takes a short moment for R.K to spot him in the crowd. He gestures until Hank’s gaze has found him too, “Yes, I believe he is winning the hearts and minds of the city. Unless I’m mistaken, he appears to be speaking with the Mayor and his constituency.”

“Oh, that little shit,” but Hank’s expression is nothing short of desperately proud, as the two of them regard Connor amongst what the Lieutenant had earlier referred to as the _blood-sucking piranhas of Detroit_. Eight is a negotiator, indeed, and he blends seamlessly with the crowd of representatives around him. “I told him not to talk to anyone without me,” Hank grunts. “These people are dangerous.”

**_“Eight, let me know if you need an extraction.”_ **

**_“The thought is appreciated, Nine. But I’m all right for now.”_ **

“Connor is aware of the risks, Lieutenant,” R.K assures aloud. Although he, too, will still be keeping a stringent eye on his brother until the piranhas have dispersed. “He will win the DPD their continued support, of that I have no doubt. Best we leave him be,” he adds firmly, when Hank looks tempted to make his way over there.

The Lieutenant grumbles some more, but does as R.K advises. He ambles off to join Chris and Ben in a secluded corner, though not before he makes certain Connor is still within his sights.

R.K, with nothing but confidence in Eight’s abilities, moves along. He must have spoken with everyone here by now. And though he would dreadfully prefer to be chasing a criminal through the streets, he knows that this event is just as high-stakes. He has done just about all he can to win them over and guarantee their ongoing funding for the station. And by the time he has done his rounds once more and made nice with every delegate the city has to offer, R.K is beginning to feel… drained. Yet at the same time, completely restless.

He is starting to consider whether it would be impolite to leave after just an hour and a half, when Tina sidles up to him; cheeks flushed from dancing and a glass of wine balanced precariously between her fingers.

R.K takes it from her, so that she can attempt to pin back her hair. “You look lovely this evening, Miss. Chen.”

“Aww,” and she leans up to plant a kiss against his cheek, before hazardously flipping her ponytail away from her face. It narrowly avoids whipping R.K in the chin. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Ironman. Though just between you and me, my thong is so far up my ass, I can’t tell where it ends and I begin anymore.”

A tragic discomfort, R.K is sure.

“And this dress fucking sucks, I can barely move.”

The dress in question, red and long and clinging to every curve, looks admittedly sublime. “Perhaps next year we might trade,” R.K suggests, keeping the wine glass safe and steady as she leans on his offered forearm to tighten her shoes. “You may have the suit, and I’ll try the dress.”

She grins up at him, a welcome and genuine sight after the fake laughs and forced smiles R.K has endured all evening. “Deal. Bet red would suit you.”

“Oh, I’m certain.” He presents her with her wine, once she is satisfied with her tweaked attire. “And I’m sure you’d wear a suit far better than all the men in this room.”

“Damn straight– oh _shit_ , not him again, go away you perv.” She notices something that makes dread flash on her face. An older politician is heading their way through the crowd; overweight, reddened cheeks and sweat beading on his forehead. Tina tries in vain to hide herself behind R.K. “He’s such a boring, thirsty old bastard. D’you think I’d be fired if I punched him in the throat?”

“Undoubtedly.” So R.K, instead, takes her hand. “If you’d do me the honour?”

Tina, once she sees that he’s leading her to the dance floor, grabs his arm eagerly, “My fucking saviour,” and abandons her glass on an unsuspecting waiter’s tray nearby.

The orchestra begins a slow waltz, and Tina seems happy to let him take the lead. She has led most of the evening, R.K has noticed, dancing often with the young woman from the DPD’s front desk. He is tempted, once again, to pry. But he knows that Gavin alone will always be the first to know if there is something more serious going on in Miss. Chen’s love life.

“Couldn’t convince him to swing by, huh?”

It must be a particular expression, then, that always gives him away when Gavin is on his mind. “Failure is a bitter taste,” he remarks, only slightly teasing. “But I would not force him. He seemed particularly disinclined with the idea of attending tonight.”

Tina nods, grinning widely when R.K twirls her under his arm. “Don’t take it personally. He’s always hated these Christmas dos, and all the fakery and the suck-ups and shit. He came the year before last with Danny,” she adds, sharing a knowing expression with R.K. He does not need to ask how that must have ended. “And that was about as shitty as you’d expect. They barely fucking spoke to one another, and Danny kept dancing with other guys. Never once asked _him_ , y’know. It was just a train wreck. I think they broke up not long after that New Years.”

“I had thought that I could convince him,” R.K admits, and he hears the disappointment seeping into his tone without his permission. “Perhaps I am losing my touch.”

Tina scoffs, and opens her mouth to reply before her gaze lands on something behind him. A small smile softens her face, “Yeah, I don’t think you have,” and she takes his shoulders and turns him towards the entrance.

R.K decides instantly that there is no sweeter sight than Gavin Reed in a suit. Even with the sullen glare on his face.

“Damn, does that boy clean up good,” Tina remarks, taking in the brushed-back hair and fitted jacket that R.K has never before persuaded Gavin to wear. “It always surprises me, every time. Probably because he looks like street trash ninety-percent of the year,” she adds, patting R.K’s upper arm, and he realises that he is still staring. “Why d’you reckon he changed his mind?” Tina whispers loudly, craning up near his ear as though they’re sharing a secret, while they watch Gavin stalk further into the room and aggressively avoid everybody in his path.

_Would it make a difference if I said you would come with me if you loved me?_

“I believe,” R.K answers, “it’s because he loves me.”

A slight, bubbling noise escapes Tina before she presses another kiss against his cheek. “Thanks for the dance, sweetie. Make sure he doesn’t insult anyone too important.” And she sashays away to claim a passing champagne flute and retrieve her earlier dance partner from the opposite side of the room.

R.K finds Gavin at the bar.

“Not a single fuckin’ word,” is his greeting, and R.K is hard pressed not to let his smile split his jaw in half. “I didn’t come for you, and I damn well didn’t come for more than an hour. One fuckin’ hour, and then we’re gone.”

“ _Half_ an hour,” R.K corrects, gently placing his fingers to the wine glass when Gavin’s swig is a little _too_ liberal. “And then we take the bike home and we do not leave the apartment for the remainder of the weekend.”

Gavin glances up at him, clearly suspecting foul play. But R.K knows he will find nothing but sincerity, and that earns him the smile he’s been missing all evening. “Fine. Half an hour. What the fuck is there to do around here for half an hour,” Gavin doesn’t ask, scanning the room with little hopes of finding his answer.

So R.K takes the glass from him, deposits it on the bar. And offers his hand. “Dance with me.”


	6. Christmas party (One more dance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil' Christmas smut, because why not.

R.K dances like James fucking Bond.

Not that Gavin knows what the fuck James Bond would dance like. But it’d probably be like this. And paired with the suit and the fancy-ass venue, Gavin feels like a fucking Bond girl. Bond guy? Who the hell cares. Bond person. He’s a fucking Bond person right now.

He wasn’t sure at first. Somewhere back at the apartment, his brain had done a sudden one-eighty and thought _fuck it_. His partner was waltzing into a fucking lion’s den of rich old vampires for the first time, and Gavin needs to fucking be there. Not that he knew why. Support, maybe. Or maybe because R's mouth could get him into trouble at the best of times, the know-it-all. Or because his boyfriend had strolled out of the door dressed to the fucking nines, looking sharp as hell, and Gavin didn’t want him to dance with someone else.

Well, Chen’s fine. Chen doesn’t count.

But whatever, he’s here now. And he’s fucking dancing like a Bond person, and R’s leading him the whole way so that he doesn’t have to worry about slipping up in front of all these blood-suckers, and Gavin’s never grinned so hard during this stupid annual shindig in his entire fucking life. Christmas goddamn miracle.

“Where the hell'd you learn to dance like this? Chen ain’t that good a teacher.”

“There are many situations in which a knowledge of dancing may come to my aid in the field–”

“The short version, baby, how many fuckin’ times.”

“My protocol includes a pre-emptive ability to dance. Nothing advanced, of course. But an ability all the same.”

“Fuckin’ figures,” Gavin retorts, though even to his own ears, there’s absolutely no bite to it. He’ll leave the biting to the other guests tonight. “So, what, if you had to infiltrate this place and blend in or whatever, you could? Just like that?”

“Of course.” And the answer’s not arrogant. Gavin knows it doesn’t have to be. R could do it, so he says he could do it. It’s just matter-of-fact.

“James fuckin’ Bond,” Gavin mutters under his breath.

And they dance. Gavin, going off of all the previous examples of this dumb Christmas gala, would’ve been drunk by now, hiding with Chen in a corner somewhere and playing ‘spot the sugar daddy’. A good game. A _great_ game. But this is fucking better. He’s _never_ danced at one of these things before, even when he had a partner. He doubts Danny could have compared to this, whether the fucker had danced with him or not.

They dance until R’s hand on his waist is hard to ignore, the light pressure seeming to burn through the two, expensive layers of Gavin’s clothing. It makes him squirmy. It makes him push into it until he’s closer, and R’s chin is against his forehead, and he’s bringing Gavin’s other hand to rest against his chest, and it’s so fucking _intimate_ , and it’s been half an hour by now, surely, probably more than.

But Gavin doesn’t want to go home. He wants to stay here. He wants people to fucking _see_ him here. He wants to keep feeling like a Bond person, and he wants to keep dancing, and he wants R to keep looking at him like that, and he wants–

He leans up, and whispers low against his partner’s ear, “C’mon, Mr. Infiltrator. Get a fuckin’ move on.”

When they get to the bathroom, it’s blessedly empty, and seriously, R _is_ James fucking Bond because he gets them there without turning any heads or suspicious glances their way, and Gavin pushes him against the far wall until he’s pressing every inch of himself against him and tugging hard at R’s lips with his teeth. So much for leaving the biting to the others.

R kisses him like he hasn’t seen him in weeks, though it’s hardly been two hours since he’d said goodbye at the apartment, and his hands are everywhere. Pulling at Gavin’s hair until there’s a delicious sting running across his scalp, fingers running down his neck to squeeze at the juncture; just hard enough to make Gavin whine against his mouth, and just gentle enough to be a reminder that he wouldn’t go further without Gavin’s say-so. So much in one tiny, almost thoughtless movement, and Gavin presses him further into the wall until their hips are flush and the contact is almost painful and he’s grinding against R’s thigh while slender, seeking hands curve under his jacket, untuck his shirt and slide up against the bare skin beneath.

When Gavin grazes his teeth against the sharp jut of R’s jaw, he feels something pull taut and snap inside the man. It’s always a telling, precious moment, when R abandons that careful control and gives way to better, baser shit, and Gavin’s breath leaves him in a stuttered moan as hands grasp onto the back of his thighs and lift until he’s suddenly perched beside one of the sinks, and R pulls him forward until his legs are wide and wrapped around firm hips, and a clever mouth is sucking bruises against his neck.

“Holy _fuck_ , baby–” and Gavin tries to laugh, feeling punch-drunk and giddy, but it cuts off into a sharp breath when R’s fingers dig into his sides and a tongue laves its way over what feels like a deep and darkening mark just above Gavin’s collar. Gavin hopes it’s high enough that his shirt doesn’t cover it, so that everyone can see.

The door to the bathroom opens, though Gavin’s barely paying attention to anything but R’s mouth moving torturously over his throat. He only sees a dark shape in the edge of his vision, appearing and then halting suddenly to gape in the entryway.

“I, uh–”

“ _Out_ ,” R growls against Gavin’s skin, a clear warning that has Gavin’s blood fleeing lower and his thighs squeezing R closer, and whoever it was scurries away. Shit, it could have been _Fowler_ for all Gavin saw, but who fucking cares.

There’s an animal satisfaction to it, grinding mindlessly and feverishly together; R’s fingers almost clawing against his skin, moving beneath his crumpled shirt, and Gavin’s so hard that when his gaze strays back to the door, to the evidence that anyone else could walk in at any fucking minute and see them like _this_ , he’s not stupid enough to think that he can last.

“R– _baby_ –” He can feel R _shivering_ against him with the tension, tongue suddenly pushing against Gavin’s as his fingers find the buttons on his pants, make quick work, and then take him in hand, and Gavin grits his teeth against the sudden, glorious friction of the tight palm around him. “ _Fuck_ – fuck, yes–”

R strokes him slowly, coaxing whines out of him that he tries to muffle against R’s shoulder, but most of them end up echoing off the fancy white tiles, and he’s panting and writhing where he’s perched and he can feel the heat coiling deeper in his stomach, growing tighter and tighter as R’s mouth moves lower, and then he’s kneeling beneath Gavin and his lips barely close around the head before Gavin’s coming on his tongue, tight waves of pleasure pulsing as R swallows him down.

Gavin arches forward and fists a hand into R’s hair as an anchor, and fuck he’s probably hurting him, but he can’t find the sense to loosen his grip; white heat swims in his vision, throbbing behind his eyelids when R doesn’t let up, curling his tongue around him until Gavin’s grip becomes slack and he’s shaking, and his hips are almost slipping off the edge of the sink.

“Jesus, R…” Gavin’s voice is rough from trying to hold it back, but he manages a short, breathless chuckle when R lets him slip from his mouth because _Jesus_ , seriously, his boyfriend is fucking filthy. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he sees fit to say out loud, against R’s lips when the man straightens up and lets Gavin pulls him in by his tie.  “Hey, wait, what about you– babe, hold on–”

R pauses where he’s neatening out the collar of Gavin’s shirt, and Gavin frowns at the sudden, fierce blue tinge that has appeared across the android’s cheekbones. “There is no further… need… to attend to my own needs.”

Gavin’s lost for a second, his brain too wrung dry to put the evidence together, and then– “Hold the fuck up, you–?” His gaze darts between R’s severe blush and the front of his pants. And Gavin’s suddenly never felt more flattered in his fucking life. “You–?”

“In my defence, the sounds you make are quite… stimulating.”

“Holy fucking–”

“Do _not_ let it go to your head,” R warns sharply, though it means absolutely fucking nothing because that blue flush is still in full-force and Gavin’s grinning like a madman as he kisses him again because he just made James fucking Bond come in his pants, and if that ain’t a fucking ego boost and a half then he doesn’t know what the fuck is. “I shall be more than prepared to fuck you senseless once we return home, make no mistake.”

Gavin doesn’t doubt that for the world. Merry fucking Christmas to him.

But, once they’ve cleaned up and straightened one another out – though R’s tie is now wrinkled to all hell, and Gavin’s shirt needs a thorough fucking iron – and R holds the door open for him as they leave, Gavin pauses when the music from the main hall drifts down the corridor, and something daring and longing and brave settles in his chest.

Home sounds good. Really fucking good. But Gavin offers his hand. “One more dance?”

R studies him, and he must see Gavin’s determination because he smiles, and threads their fingers together, and lets himself be led back towards the chamber. “One more dance, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to make it clear, in the last chapter I didn’t intend for it to appear as though R.K was emotionally manipulating Gavin into coming. I got a comment that made me kind of sad someone would think that – anyone who’s read my stuff before knows that Nines wouldn’t do that, at least not intentionally, because he knows about the shit Gavin’s gone through in the past.  
> Gavin’s his own person and makes his own decisions, so I’m sorry if it came across as otherwise.


	7. Gifts

Despite having the access to anything one might need to know about the holiday, Connor has reached gridlock. In the form of Christmas presents. He suspected he would reach it eventually; everything had been going faultlessly until now. He had even succeeded in procuring a gift for Detective Reed.

Perhaps he should not have put Hank’s gift off for so long. Connor had wrongly expected inspiration to strike, but it has not. And he doubts that it will, without some help.

In these situations, Connor must fall back on his most valuable and trusted sources.

Not Hank, however. Obviously. Not Sumo, either, because he would likely give the game away; he is far more loyal to the Lieutenant than to Connor.

His best bet, then, is R.K.

Connor glances over to scrutinize his availability. Nine is at his desk, reading a thin case file in hand and reclined in a position he has – unintentionally, Connor suspects – picked up from Detective Reed; leaning back against the support of his chair, legs stretched out and crossed, one foot resting atop Gavin’s beneath the desk. The Detective opposite him is engrossed in his work; fingers tapping furiously at his keyboard, brows furrowed deep and eyes fixated on his terminal. He has his third cup of coffee beside him.

R.K will not be missed for a few minutes. It is unlikely that Gavin will even notice he has left, being absorbed as he is.

**_“Can I borrow you for a moment?”_ **

**_“Break room?”_ **

**_“Certainly.”_ **

They rise as one, and rendezvous by the coffee machine.

“How can I assist?”

Connor pauses. “What makes you think I’m asking for your assistance?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Perhaps I merely wanted to talk.”

R.K’s answering eyebrow raise is an expression that Connor has yet to perfect. He has witnessed the perfectly smooth and unimpressed arch of it striking fear into many humans. Even Captain Fowler, on occasion. “You have been staring despairingly at your terminal for the past ten minutes. Either you were performing updates, which you and I both know are needless at this point in time, or you were contemplating whether you’re in need of my assistance with a personal matter. Most likely concerning yourself and Lieutenant Anderson.”

Connor is almost tempted to argue, for the sake of his dignity. Though it would do him little good. Nine is correct on all counts, and he knows it. “A fair point.”

R.K hums, before his gaze flits dangerously to the Lieutenant’s desk. “Now, precisely what has occurred to make you seek my aid? I trust everything is well at home.”

The latter is a statement, a warning, not a question. Connor smiles. He wonders vaguely whether all brothers feel like this; endeared, and slightly exasperated, by their sibling’s superfluous protectiveness. “Hank and I are well, Nine. Stop glaring at him.”

R.K, with some apparent effort, tears his battle-gaze away. “Continue.”

“It _is_ a personal matter, however. Relating to the holidays.”

Nine abruptly comprehends. “You are uncertain what to get the Lieutenant as a gift.”

“Correct.” Connor withers slightly, now that he has confessed it out loud. “I have even found something for Sumo. But Hank is proving… a difficult recipient. And he refuses to tell me what he would like.”

R.K’s eyes narrow once more, though this time he is not looking at anything in particular. He is frowning, quite confusedly, to himself. “Is it a staple practice, to buy gifts for one’s pets?” He is thinking of Detective Reed’s feline, clearly.

“Focus, Nine.”

“My apologies.”

They both regard the Lieutenant, hunched low in his chair as he flicks through the paperwork beside his terminal. He’s muttering under his breath, irritable. Connor makes a reminder to retrieve something with caffeine in it before he leaves the break room.

“He wouldn’t happen to be in need of more socks? I hear socks are a common and well-received gift, worldwide.”

“He has an entire drawer dedicated to that attire. I don’t think he requires more.”

“Hm… You are well-versed in the Lieutenant’s more favoured supplements,” Nine points out. “Why not procure something along those lines?”

“Strong whiskey and fast food are things he must _cut down_ on,” Connor reminds him, although he deflates further still. If only he were less devoted to helping Hank limit his vices, a bottle of Whiskey may have made the perfect gift. “I won’t feed temptation by making an exception at Christmas.”

“It needn’t be a corporeal thing,” R.K points out. “Sexual favours are always a hit amongst humans.”

Chris Miller halts and squeezes his eyes closed as he passes the breakroom, having evidently overheard. “Nowhere’s fucking safe anymore,” and then he hurries on his way.

“Why not inquire as to the Lieutenant’s specific tastes in _that_ area,” R.K continues, unabashed, once Officer Miller is no longer within earshot. Chris has been avoiding Nine and Detective Reed, Connor has noticed, ever since the festivities at City Hall that past weekend.

He would pry, but there are more pressing matters on his plate. “A nice idea,” he admits, “but I would prefer to acquire a gift that Hank can _keep_. It is, technically speaking, our first Christmas together,” Connor adds. The aftermath of the revolution had still been in full-force this time last year, and few people in Detroit had had the time or the mindset for celebration. “I’d prefer for it to be special. And Hank has been… seemingly on edge about something for the past few weeks. I believe it to be merely because of the time of year, but I am uncertain.”

Nine softens, and he opens his mouth to reply, before Hank barks across the bullpen, _“Terminator!_ Get over here, _now_.”

R.K blinks, taken aback by Hank’s gruff tone. He excuses himself and makes his way over to the Lieutenant’s desk. Connor watches Hank drag him down by the lapels of his jacket until their voices are too quiet to overhear. Connor gives a small shrug in answer, when Detective Reed catches his gaze and mouths, _“What the fuck?”_ from his desk.

Though when R.K returns to the break room, there is something else, something sharp and secretive in his expression. And determination has set into his features when he gives a single, decided nod.

“Very well. Meet me tomorrow,” he instructs, and Connor feels relief flood through his system. “And we shall find a gift for Lieutenant Anderson, without fail.”

***

“We’re failing.”

“Not necessarily.”

“This is an unmitigated disaster.”

“It’s not, babe,” Gavin says, patting his arm and looking besotted as ever by Nine’s tendency to exaggerate in these situations. “Chill the fuck out.”

Detective Reed is correct. There is still hope to be found. Found in over one hundred stores, in fact. Connor has rarely ventured to the indoor mall in the centre of the city, but he sees now that this is why he may have been struggling to find a gift in the first place. There are so many options in front of him that Connor is now unsure where to venture next. And his navigational data is completely scrambled, thanks to the amount of people and androids bustling about the shops around them. There is barely enough space to move.

Perhaps last-minute Christmas shopping had not been the _best_ decision.

They take a brief respite in a coffee shop in the midst of the main mall, letting the crowd swarm around them as they squeeze onto a three-person table. Detective Reed has all but drained his coffee, leaning heavily against R.K’s side.

Connor watches him take another, immense gulp. “You should really watch your caffeine intake, Detecti–”

“Don’t bother,” R.K cuts him off, every ounce as besotted as Gavin downs the rest of his cup and flips Connor off across the table. “It is not an argument you will win.”

“Damn straight, it’s not,” Gavin agrees, crumpling the paper cup in one hand and tossing it in an arc into the nearest bin. “So, where to next, dipshit?”

Gavin had insisted on coming with them, and Connor had readily agreed, if only to keep R.K in check. His brother is capable, true, but he takes his missions seriously and Connor did not want to risk frightening innocent store clerks, should they be unable to cater to their needs. Christmas is a stressful enough time in retail, and Connor does not want to add to the pressure.

Although Gavin, on his best behaviour for a majority of the morning, is becoming more and more agitated by the second, and is now in dire need of another distraction “Y’know what,” he says, when Connor apparently takes too long to answer. “Doesn’t matter, let’s just make some fuckin’ headway. All these people are gettin’ on my nerves.”

  
**_INFORMATION updating………  
100%_**

**_> DETECTIVE REED DISLIKES CROWDS<_ **

  
A slight nod from R.K confirms it.

So they navigate the crowds blindly, Nine keeping a tight and reassuring hold on Gavin’s hand, until they find refuge in the first shop that crosses their path. A perfume store. Overpowering. Smiley clerks with no concept of personal space. Gavin starts sneezing, and they find nothing for Hank in there.

The next is a clothes store. R.K procures an old military-style jacket for Officer Chen, which Gavin assures him she’ll love. And Gavin finds a t-shirt; plain black with a little white cat in the pocket, middle finger hidden beneath the seam. _A Christmas present for himself_ , he grins before he heads to the checkout. However, there are no unique or colourful shirts. Nothing that Hank might like. So they move on swiftly.

The next store they all but fall into; pushed back by the after-lunchtime throngs of shoppers filing in through the mall. R.K gently pulls Gavin into the shop to avoid collision with an oncoming congregation of women and pushchairs, and Connor darts in after them, catching himself on the nearest wrack of… thongs. Blue, lacy thongs.

“Oh my fuckin’ God. Nice going, geniuses,” Gavin chuckles, in better spirits as soon as there’s a little more space to breathe, and he’s jerking his thumb up at the name of the store. “Congrats. Could’ve brought me a fuckin’ drink first.”

Connor and R.K regard the elegant shop sign with tilted heads. **_INDIGO PASSIONS_** … Oh.

And, yes, a quick inspection of the rest of the shop’s contents confirms that they have unwittingly trekked into an adult entertainment store.

“Tell me– fuckin’ _tell_ _me_ that Anderson’s not into any of this kinky shit,” Gavin says, jabbing an accusatory finger towards Connor’s chest, “or I’ll never be able to fuckin’ look at him again.”

Connor, wisely, chooses not to comment. “Perhaps we should just lea–”

“Good afternoon, gentleman!”

Gavin flinches, and Connor and R.K turn calmly to regard the young woman approaching them from the pay desk. Round, stout figure, red hair, tattoos along her left side. Kind smile, bright, enthusiastic eyes, and she’s wearing a pair of sparkly elf ears. Despite the shop being relatively busy already, the clerk appears genuinely pleased to welcome them.

“Can I help you find anything in particular today, or are you just here for a browse?”

Connor offers her a polite smile, “I believe we were just–”

“What the hell, why not,” Detective Reed interrupts. His neck is slightly flushed and his hands are stuffed into his pockets, posture a little self-conscious, but there is a barely-repressed eagerness in his tone as he glances up at R.K. “Can’t hurt, right? We’re here now anyway, might as well.”

And Nine, unable or unwilling to resist him, replies, “Indeed.”

The clerk – Katey, R.K has the sense to ask her name – shows them around, particularly enthusiastic about their recent android-inclusive range. R.K follows obediently behind, calm and collected and listening carefully to everything she says. Gavin stays very close beside him, clearly a little uncomfortable having Connor with them in this environment, but he’s buzzing with a quiet, awkward excitement.

Connor is content to observe them from a respectable distance, endeared when R.K leans down to whisper something in the Detective’s ear, making Gavin flush deeper, and nudge him irritably with his elbow, and then double back to grudgingly snatch the ten-metre rope from the side of the store.

They collect a small assortment as they go. A blue blindfold, not dissimilar from the thongs Conner had first seen. Another form of restraint, with electronic nodes along the inside – _perfectly safe_ , Katey assures them – that can link with androids’ biometrics. A leather crop with thick tassels on one end, which R.K at first raises his eyebrows towards, unimpressed, but then Katey goes on tiptoes to speak quietly to him. He adds it to the assortments without hesitation.

And Gavin seems to gradually become used to Connor’s presence there. He even offers a little wink when Connor catches him sneaking a studded, scarlet collar to another clerk. Connor marvels at the man’s subtlety; it’s not easy to keep surprises from Nine.

Connor himself is almost tempted by the handcuffs; dark and polished red steel. He suspects Hank’s pair is stronger, however, so he leaves them on the shelf.

Gavin’s buzz is even more infectious as they leave. His face is still flushed, but he’s grinning and hanging off R.K’s arm when they re-join the masses sifting through the mall. “Right, where we goin’ now? We still haven’t found anythin’ for Anderson, Con, what’ve you got in mind?”

**_“Did you find anything inside?”_ **

**_“I’m afraid not.”_ **

R.K presses his lips together, thoughtful, before gesturing resolutely towards the other side of the mall. “We’ll try this area next. Success is bound to present itself sooner or later.”

“Well, come the fuck on, then, let’s go.” Gavin tugs Nine’s arm and laces an arm around Connor’s shoulder to steer them along, and Connor tries to remain optimistic. They’ll find something. He’ll succeed. He has to.

***

**_  
MISSION UNSUCCESSFUL_ **

  
Connor closes the front door solemnly, and kneels down to greet Sumo. “No luck, I’m afraid.”

He earns himself a huff of condolence, before the Saint Bernard returns to his bed.

“That better be you, Con. I ain’t in the mood to be robbed, it’s a fuckin’ Sunday.”

“It’s me, Hank.”

Disappointment must bleed into his voice, because Hank’s head is turned towards him when Connor enters the living room. “Well, you don’t sound too pleased about it. Particularly eager to get robbed, or did’ja just have a bad outing?”

“It was pleasant.” Connor hesitates, before deciding to throw caution to the wind. It’s not like he has anything to hide, without having even returned with a present. “However, I was unable to procure a suitable gift.”

“Oh yeah? For who? Tell me you ain’t gettin’ Fowler something,” Hank adds, though his eyes are concerned, and they follow Connor’s movements from the couch as Connor hangs up his coat by the door. “I already told you, the guy’s terrible with gifts. He gets this awkward fucking look on his face, like he’s constipated or somethin’–”

“For you. I’m sorry, Hank.”

The silence extends for long enough that disappointment begins sprouting branches of panic, before Hank clears his throat. “All right. Come here, c’mon.”

Connor slips his other shoe off, and then takes the six and a half steps to the couch. Hank’s pulls him down by the wrist, and then keeps Connor’s palm in his as he sits down.

“I wasn’t certain what you’d want, and I didn’t–”

“Well, that’s ‘cause I didn’t tell you, right? Con,” and he breathes in deep through his nose, a sign that Connor is both exasperating him and making him incredibly fond. Connor likes that sign. “I didn’t tell you what I want,” he repeats, “‘cause I don’t fuckin’ need anything. Hell, what could I possibly want? Apart from for you to let me have a fuckin’ burger once in a while.”

Connor’s feels his own expression harden. “Hank, you know–”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just kiddin’. I know you get off on being a hard-ass or my personal fuckin’ trainer or whatever.” Hank squeezes his fingers, and ducks his head to search Connor’s gaze, which has at some point fallen to his own thighs. “Hey, you did just hear me say I didn’t want anythin’, right?”

“I did, Hank.” Still, the disappointment remains. It hasn’t even lessened. “But I wanted to find something special. Something you could keep. It’s been a year,” he adds. He knows the significance of anniversaries. He had hoped he could make it memorable, if he had found the right gift. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Hank heaves a sigh in answer, and he sounds despairing. Exasperated. And incredibly fond. “You’re breakin’ my fucking heart.” Connor watches the indecision play about his face, before he leans forward, almost leaving the couch, and he’s rummaging for something beneath the tree. “All right,” he says, straightening back up once he’s found his prize. “We’re doin’ this now, and you’re gonna shut the hell up and listen, deal?”

Connor examines the small present clutched in Hank’s hand, and resists the spontaneous urge to scan it. “But it isn’t Christmas yet, Hank. It’s only the twenty-second–”

Hank holds up a hand to stop him, and then presses the gift into Connor’s grasp. “We’re doin’ this now, ‘cause I didn’t ask Reed and that moron brother of yours to keep you distracted all day for nothing–”

**_“Nine, we need to talk about today.”_ **

**_“Later.”_ **

“–and if I have to look at that disappointed fucking look on your face for a second longer, Christmas is over. Done. Capeesh?”

“But,” Connor’s socialisation protocol is in an uproar, “I don’t have something for you to open–”

“Yeah, well, let me tell you, it’d be a real fuckin’ gift if you didn’t throw this back in my face, ‘cause it took me an age to work up the nerve to finally fucking order it, so.” Hank pauses for a moment, as though he’s considering saying more, but then he just makes a dismissive gesture, and jerks his head towards the present in Connor’s hands. “Seems weird to wait until Christmas, anyway. Some dumb, mushy idea I had. Fuckin’ stupid.”

Curiosity, confusion and concern combined are gradually overcoming his disappointment. Connor notices that Hank’s hands are shaking, just barely. “It can wait until Christmas if you’d prefer, Hank–”

“No. No, now’s as fucking good a time as any.” He is nervous. He is– “I love you to fucking death, Con. And if this ends the way I want it too, then I don’t need a fucking gift. Now,” he says, and he’s so nervous, Connor’s LED is red, why would he be so nervous– “you’re seriously fuckin’ killing me here, so just open it, all right?”

And, frowning, Connor does.

A small box, with a ring inside.

 

 

 

 

_Oh._

***

**_  
MISSION SUCCESSFUL_ **

**_  
_** R.K confirms it and smiles when Hank’s text comes through. And then he runs the tassels over Gavin’s shoulder as the man begins squirming.

“Well? How’d the fuck it go, babe, did he say yes or not?”

“Later,” R.K reasons. “Now, are the ropes tight enough?”

Gavin gives his wrists a hard few pulls. The headboard of the bed doesn’t budge. “Fuckin’ looks like it.”

“Good.” And he loops a finger through the dark red collar, and presses a kiss to the back of Gavin’s neck. “Then let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marriage, y'all.
> 
> Also, if anyone’s curious about Gavin’s shirt, [here’s the link.](https://www.zumiez.com/rip-n-dip-lord-nermal-pocket-tee-shirt.html/)


	8. Relatives part 1

Gavin wakes on December twenty-fourth, warm and swathed in the covers and with a strong arm secure around his waist, and he instantly groans all his woes against his pillow.

“You’re overreacting,” are R’s first words to him that morning, and yeah, thanks genius, Gavin fucking knows that. But still. “You survived last year, and you shall survive this year hence. I thought you wanted to see your father.”

“I do! Of course I fuckin’ do, it’s just–” He shimmies over onto his other side so that he can look his sleep-rumpled boyfriend in the eye. Gavin knows it’s only until New Year, but _Jesus fuck_ , he’s going to miss this sight; R with his hair every which way, eyes all soft, his hands mindlessly grazing over whatever part of Gavin’s skin that’s within reach. “It’s just everythin’ else. All my dad’s fuckin’ relatives’ll be there; my annoying fucking aunts and their dumb fuckin’ husbands, my weird grandpa, even my fucking cousin–”

“I thought this mysterious cousin of yours avoided family gatherings. _Like the plague_ , in your words.”

Gavin huffs. “Christmas is an exception. It has to be,” he adds. “My dad threatened to drive everyone over to Eli’s place instead if he didn’t agree to come.”

He buries his face in the pillow to shield his eyes from the early-morning light. It’s even fucking sunny outside, to really twist the knife in Gavin’s side. It’s like the day’s sending a great, bright _fuck you Gavin Reed, you’re going to fucking Chicago today and you won’t see your boyfriend or your cat for a whole fucking week, congratu-fucking-lations!_ And the sun makes R look even fucking softer; gazing at Gavin from the other pillow with a small, sympathetic smile. Fuck Gavin’s miserable life.

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m fucking not. I’m stayin’ here.”

“You made a promise to your father, Gavin Reed.”

“Promises were made to be broken.” Gavin knows it’s a stupid long-shot. And sure enough–

“That saying is ludicrous.” There it is, there’s that iron-clad logic, the bane of Gavin’s existence. “Promises, by definition, are made to be _kept_ , and you have promised your father that you will spend Christmas in Chicago.

Gavin withers, and mushes his face further into the pillow to mumble, “Yeah, I know.”

“You will enjoy yourself.”

“Will I, fuck.”

“You might,” R reasons, and Gavin stretches unintentionally into the slow peppering of kisses along his spine. “You love your father. And from what you’ve said, you and your step-mother get along well.”

Gavin scoffs, turning his head sideways to make it clear that, “Look, yeah, Carrie’s great. They’re all fine, it ain’t that. First, the drive over takes four fucking hours, probably more than that ‘cause I’ve left it so late this year–” which is his own fucking fault, he knows, because he wanted to stay at _home_ , “–and everyone’s gonna be askin’ about mom and they’ll all have these dumb looks on their faces ‘cause they all know how fuckin’ psycho mom is, and dad’s gonna stress out about the dinner, and me and Carrie are gonna have to take over everythin’, and that means me and my cousin can’t get piss drunk like we did this one year when–”

“When you thought it would be prudent to keep the cold desserts in the garden, while it snowed, in order to make more space in the freezer, and the neighbour’s dog discovered and stowed away with them. So you’ve told me.”

Gavin groans, long and pained, and once again hides his face in the safety of the pillow. “It’s gonna be a nightmare.”

“It will not, my darling, and you know it.”

Gavin peeks an eye out miserably. “You should be comin’ with me. There’s still enough time to let ‘em know–”

“You and I both agreed,” R says, tone gentling, hand grazing comfortingly over Gavin’s shoulder, and it makes Gavin’s heart hurt, “that neither of us are ready for that yet.”

Gavin knows. He’d gathered his courage a few weeks ago and confessed, sheepish and refusing to meet R’s gaze, that he felt like it was too soon or too sudden or whatever to be introducing R to his family. Gavin had expected some kind of uproar, but then he remembered that it’s R. _R_ , who doesn’t judge or nudge or argue those kinds of things.

The android had said, in return, that it would be a sensible decision, to wait until they were both certain they were ready. R had even confessed in turn to being relieved, and that’s when Gavin had realised that he’d been every bit as nervous about the idea of meeting with Gavin’s relatives _as a couple_.

So they’d actually fucking _talked_ about it, which was weird and grown up and so fucking _nice_. And Gavin knows – he fucking _knows_ – that waiting is the right choice. Even if the thought of facing a week in Chicago without R holding his hand makes prickly and unpleasant butterflies dart around in his stomach. But Gavin’s survived before, as R has rightly pointed out, and he’ll damn well survive again.

If only so he can see his maniacs again come New Year.

But still, his petulant side feels the need to keep arguing, “What about you, though, babe, what are–”

R holds up a hand. “We have discussed this. I shall take care of Mia while you’re gone,” and Gavin knows he’ll take that responsibility every bit as seriously as Chen has the last few years. “And I am spending Christmas at Lieutenant Anderson’s house, per their invitation.”

Gavin glowers. _Petulant, petulant, petulant_. “You assholes better not celebrate this fuckin’ engagement without me, or I swear to God–”

The hand reappears; firm and comforting and saying _I love you dearly but you can be a ridiculous man sometimes._ “You know that Hank has decided to postpone any engagement celebrations until New Year, upon your return. The Lieutenant, much like _you_ ,” R emphasises, “keeps his promises.”

And Gavin, realising abruptly that he has exhausted every line of argument that could possibly keep him here, slumps down against the mattress, and glares. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, I’ll go to fucking Chicago to see my fucking family for fucking Christmas. Happy?”

“Am I happy to see you leave?” R comes to rest over Gavin’s chest, and pushes a chaste kiss against his jaw. “Never.”

And Gavin pulls him up for a proper kiss, because when he _does_ introduce R to his family, whenever the fuck that might be, it’s going to be the first time he’s introducing someone as the love of his life.

“Am I happy, however, to know that you are going to make your father happy by fulfilling his wish to see you? I’m ecstatic, can you not tell.”

“Yeah,” Gavin smirks, running his thumbs over R’s cheekbones, mapping his completely unchanged expression, “I can really fuckin’ tell, you’re like an open book.”

R doesn’t respond, and he looks at Gavin as though he’s memorising his face, and Gavin _really_ doesn’t want to fucking leave. “Have you packed?”

“No,” Gavin mutters, and that’s when he spots a large, dark shape in the corner of his eye. It’s his suitcase, standing smug and upright by beneath the window.

“It is fortunate, then, that one of us had the foresight to do so last night.”

Gavin closes his eyes. _God give him strength with this man_. “Psychopath. You were never gonna let me stay anyway, were you?”

“You _did_ make a promise,” R reminds him, perfectly reasonably. And if convincing you verbally did not work, I had plans to zip tie your hands behind your back, throw you into the trunk of your car, and drive you to Chicago myself.”

Gavin assumes he’s joking, but he’s learned to keep an open mind when it comes to R’s plans. He has no doubts that the android would be _able_ to do it. “And if I managed to fight you off?”

R smirks, “Please.”

“C’mon, baby, play along,” Gavin urges, recognising some fucking potential when he sees it. “If you couldn’t get me in the car, what was plan B? Or plan C,” he corrects, mind flitting back to the zip ties. “What if I took it back, right now, and said I wasn’t goin’ to Chicago. C’mon,” and he nudges R’s thigh with his knee, “what would you have done, tough guy?”

The android hums in thought, head propped up by his arms, and Gavin sees that blue-grey gaze straying to the handcuffs, still hooked around the top-left leg of the bed. “Perhaps I would have convinced you _another_ way,” R muses, mouth trailing slowly from Gavin’s chest to the juncture of his throat, and Gavin’s already writhing. “Perhaps I would have made you beg.”

And Gavin – knowing that R will get his way sooner or later, but Gavin’s a man of the fucking game so he’ll deny it as long as he can – lets his wrists be caught above his head, Chicago already forgotten because there’s only steel eyes and strong hands and that promising fucking curl at the corner of R’s mouth.

“You can fuckin’ try.”

***

The journey to Chicago takes closer to _six_ hours. It’s what Gavin gets, he supposes, for deciding to drive across state on Christmas fucking eve. Congenstion fucking everywhere, idiots trying to turn off to find a faster route to wherever the fuck they’re going. Morons.

He texts R the second he reaches the four-way traffic lights around the corner of Lawrence Avenue. They turn red for the next fifty seconds, and it’s the first stoke of luck Gavin’s had since he started the engine.

 _  
\-----------------------------_ Saturday 24th December, 2039 (PM) _\-----------------------------_

 **Gavin**  
_(16:26)_  
Almost there bby

  
His phone buzzes in under ten seconds, and Gavin’s chest constricts at the sheer speed. R must have been waiting.

  
**R**  
_(16:26)_  
Watch the road.

 **Gavin**  
_(16:26)_  
Lights r red shitbird calm down

 **R**  
_(16:26)_  
You will text me when you’re AT your father’s.

 _(16:27)_  
Now watch the fucking road.

  
Gavin smirks, and rounds the corner to the generic familiarity of his old street. Eighteen fucking years he spent here, so he’d know the house by heart even if it wasn’t decked out in crazy Christmas lights. One thing the Reeds aren’t is half-assed, and his dad’s always liked Christmas.

Gavin pulls up outside and cuts the engine, smiling properly for the first time since he set out when he sees Robert Reed coming down the path, clad in a bright red Christmas jumper and with only a pair of thick socks protecting him from the snow-strewn path.

“There he is!” his dad calls, grinning ear-to-ear as Gavin climbs out into the snow. “What the hell took you so long, kiddo, you’re the last one here!”

“Roads are a fuckin’ nightmare. Where the fuck are your shoes, pops?” He lets himself be pulled into a tight hug, deeply proud that his old man can’t fit his arms all the way around him anymore. “Hey– no, seriously, though, where are your shoes, it’s a fucking blizzard.”

“Gav, what the crap is this?” Robert ignores him, pulling back and patting each of Gavin’s shoulders. “You’ve bulked up, you look great! Have you actually been eating? Like, _real_ food?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, get off,” Gavin brushes him away, but he knows he’s beaming. “ _Real_ _food_ , you’re such a nerd. You gonna help me get my shit inside or what?” He wrestles the trunk open and grabs his suitcase, and the pair of them tackle the small Chicago snowstorm to reach the front door.

It’s cosy inside, and warm, and something nostalgic settles over Gavin as he takes in the hallway and the staircase and all the photographs along the wall opposite the banister. He can hear voices further through the house.

“Where’s Carrie?”

“Holdin’ down the fort. It’s chaos in there, Gav, absolute fucking chaos.”

“Am I seriously the last one here?” Gavin asks, shaking snowflakes from his hair and shrugging off his coat.

Robert takes it from him and hangs it over the bannister, to join the heap of coats already draped and drying there. “Oh, yeah. Uncle Davey’s been here since nine AM. Nine AM! That bastard’s got no manners,” he grins, giving Gavin’s left shoe a kick to remind him to take them off.

Gavin’s always been grateful to look like his dad. Same smile, same dark hair and same face, more or less. Gavin’s always thought his mom looked too… sharp. Too _ice queen_. He doesn’t think he’d be able to pull off blonde, either.

“Uh, let’s see, who else… Your Grandma’s been here for _hours_ , but you know how she is; talks your ear off for a while, and then after one sip of scotch, she’s out for the rest of the day.”

 _Thank God he missed that bullshit_ , Gavin thinks, wiggling his shoes loose. “Grandpa here, too?”

“Yeah, he’s having a cigar outside.” And then Gavin’s facing a single, determined finger, wagging inches away from his face, “And don’t think about joining him, Gavin Jacob Reed, that shit will kill you.”

“Hey, don’t drudge up the middle names! I’ve quit, I told you. Haven’t smoked in, like, three years.” _Apart from after some more intense jobs_ , Gavin doesn’t add, because his old man doesn’t need to know about that.

And from his expression, Robert clearly doesn’t believe him anyway, but he holds his hands up in surrender. “You’re my only son, Gav. I’ve gotta lay into you like this from time to time.”

“Fuck off, I’m thirty-seven.”

“And you didn’t even come to see me on your birthday!”

“I’m a cop!” But Gavin does give him an apologetic slap on the shoulder, “You know I would’ve if I could, but Detroit’s been heavy this year. Thanks for the card, by the way,” he adds, remembering the birthday card that was still propped up near the TV. Neither he nor R have moved it since October, even when the Christmas decorating had started. “Mia hasn’t even ripped it up, believe it or not.”

“She’s already leagues better than old Sandy was, then,” Robert says, and Gavin will always have a soft spot for that shit of a cat. Ginger tabby that they’d adopted when Gavin was thirteen. She’d been gone for years now, but Robert had never gotten another one. “I do miss her clawing up the cushions. Not my arms, though. Still hear ripping fabric at night, sometimes,” he adds with a shudder, and Gavin shoves him.

“No you fuckin’ don’t, cats can’t haunt people.”

“Okay, you tell me, Gav,” Robert says, deadly serious, “when it’s all quiet tonight, you fucking tell me you don’t hear that cat scratching up my furniture. Haunted, I’m telling you.”

“Fuck off!” Gavin laughs, and okay, R was right, this isn’t as bad as he imagined because it never fucking is, and he loves his dad to fucking death.

But then a wild, high-pitched laugh, not dissimilar from a witch’s cackle, echoes through the hallway from the kitchen, and Gavin deflates slightly.

Robert notices, of course. “You ready to go in there, kiddo? It’s like a fucking zoo, seriously.”

“Is aunt Mary here?” He fucking hopes so. Aunt Mary’s great.

“Yeah, Mary’s here. Drinkin’ all my good spirits. And Uncle Jakub’s here, as well.” Uncle Jakub is _not_ great. “Don’t make that face,” Robert chuckles when Gavin feels his own expression scrunch up in distaste. “Uncle Jakub’s just a little _eccentric_ –”

“ _Insane_ ,” Gavin insists at the same time. “It’s a Polish thing.”

“Don’t be racist, Gav.”

“It’s true! _All_ the Kamskis, they’re fuckin’ nuts–”

“Hey, now, that’s my sister you’re bad-mouthing,” Robert warns, though he’s still smiling “She’s a Kamski, and you love Mary–”

“Yeah, but she ain’t a Kamski by blood, she married into it, she doesn’t count. Just look at _Eli_ and tell me that that gene pool doesn’t have a fuckin’ screw loose–”

“Thought I heard a familiar voice.”

 _Fucking superb._ And there’s his best kept secret for the past ten years. Even R hasn’t been able to cajole the truth out of him.

Gavin turns, and the first thing he focuses on, always, is the fucking man bun. He’s had an impulse since the guy started growing it; whenever Gavin sees the damn thing, he has an urge to grab the nearest sharp thing and cut it off. Man buns aren’t fucking cool.

Eli tips his glass in greeting, and he smiles from where he’s leaning in the doorway. His smiles never quite meet his eyes, even in interviews. “Gavin. It’s been a long time.”

“Hey, Eli. Still rockin’ the man bun, huh?”

“As you can see.”

Gavin snorts. “Try-hard.”

Eli does smile then, properly. Only for a second. “Dork.”


	9. Relatives part 2

“How’s life been treating you? I’ve heard you still work at the DPD.”

“You know I do, dickwad, don’t try and be clever.” Gavin can see a retort forming on that shitty, scientist mouth – _Well, I am the world’s leading brain in biometric engineering_ – and quickly cuts through before Eli can make another sound. “You think I can’t put two and two together? Out of all the other fuckin’ precincts in Detroit, a CyberLife android gets sent to the DP-fuckin’-D?”

“I no longer work at CyberLife,” Eli points out, intentionally avoiding his gaze and instead surveying the room. Bored, leaning back against the counter, swilling wine around in his glass. The entire enigmatic, rich, shut-in asshole demeanour is kind of undercut by the Santa hat that Robert had plonked on his head that morning. Gavin has one, too. The fluffy bobble at the end keeps hitting him in the eye whenever he turns his head. “I don’t see how you’d imagine that _I_ had something to do with–”

“Oh, gimme a fucking break. I know you could make _one_ fuckin’ phone call to that shitheap of a company, and ask ‘em to do whatever the fuck you wanted.” _Before the revolution, anyway_ , Gavin wisely chooses _not_ to add. CyberLife’s been in a fragile partnership for a year now, after all; humans and androids, running the place together. Gavin’s never asked what Eli thought of all the shit that went down there. He probably wouldn’t get a straight answer, anyway. And of course, since Eli had made himself scarce before any of the deviancy stuff even surfaced, no one from legal has been able to touch him for anything that happened. And he has some good fucking lawyers.

 _Shame_ , Gavin muses distantly to himself. That man bun would look great in one of their holding cells. Plus, having a criminal record might knock the prick off of his high horse once in a while.

“I know it was you,” he adds, purely out of spite.

Eli has one eyebrow raised, a sign that he’s thoroughly impressed by Gavin’s detective skills. That’s what Gavin chooses to believe, anyway.

“I merely called in a small favour. I’d heard a specialist android was out on a test run, and thought that the DPD might benefit.” Eli shrugs; a casual jerk of one shoulder, and takes a leisurely sip of his wine. “I’d forgotten you work there.”

“Bullshit.”

Eli hums. “Well, worth a try.”

“You’re a sycophantic prick.”

His cousin takes another, unoffended sip.

They’ve been taking refuge in a secluded corner of the kitchen for the better part of half an hour, and the rest of the space is abuzz with Christmas activity now; bubbling pots of vegetables on the stove under Carrie’s hawk-like gaze, turkey and ham joint probably burning in the oven, Uncle Davey and Aunt Mary giggling like schoolgirls over their champagne, music blasting from the TV, Uncle Jakub and Grandpa outside with their cigars, Robert darting around the rooms like a kid on Christmas, except it’s _actually Christmas_.

And despite the front of indifference, Gavin could have sniffed out Eli’s discomfort from a mile away that morning. So he’d pushed the glass of wine into his cousin’s hand, grabbed himself a lukewarm beer from the edge of the room, and they’d found sanctuary away from the energetic crowd of their relatives.

He hasn’t said anything – he doesn’t have to – but Gavin can tell Eli’s grateful for the respite, however short-lived it might be.

“I take it you still haven’t told anyone about me?”

“Never have, never will. I don’t need that shit on me.”

“Have you not even told that android of yours?”

Gavin feels himself freeze. Its fucking cliché, but that’s what it feels like; like literal ice has coated his veins, making it difficult to move. “How _the fuck_ do you know about that, you creep, I haven’t even told _pops_ yet.”

Eli turns that dead-eyed smile on him, and Gavin knows the fucking answer before it even leaves that shitty, _shitty_ mouth. “I had no idea, actually. Lucky guess.”

Gavin glowers into his second beer, finishing the bottle off in one, fervent gulp. “Prick.”

“I’d heard you had a new partner, of course,” Eli continues, as though he hasn’t heard him, though Gavin _knows_ he did. “And I assumed, going off your past tendency to drive them away, that _something_ had to be different this time.” He glances at Gavin sidelong, “Am I wrong?”

“You’re never fuckin’ wrong,” Gavin bites out through gritted teeth. “You’re a sociopath, you don’t know _how_ to be.”

“So, going off the evidence I had available, it seemed logical to conclude that your new partner– an android, of course, because of the new CyberLife protocol is to begin assimilating specialised androids into the workplace. It seemed logical to conclude that this android of yours might be a little something _more_ than ‘just a partner’. I am correct, aren’t I–”

Gavin grabs cousin Marie’s champagne flute as she passes, “Hey, Gavin, you asshole, what the hell?!” and drains the gross, bubbly liquid with the utmost devotion to reach a state of _too-drunk-to-care-anymore_ before dinner.

“You’re a real fuck–”

“Fuck off, Marie.”

“Screw you, gay boy!”

“Fuck you, homophobe!”

“I’m not a fucking homophobe, Gav, you _are_ _gay!”_

“And you’re an irritating little shit, so fuck off.”

“Uncle Bobby, Gavin’s being a dick–”

“I don’t have time for you right now, honey,” Robert calls kindly, head in the oven to check on the bird, “just sucker punch him in the balls and move on.”

Gavin points a finger right in Marie’s face. “If you even fuckin’ _think_ about it, I’ll arrest you right here, right now. Don’t think I fuckin’ won’t.”

Marie grumbles, “You’re off duty, shithead, you don’t scare me,” but she decides not to risk it, and stalks off to bother someone else.

“How old is she, now?” Eli whispers in his ear.

“Eighteen,” Gavin scoffs. “Acts like a fuckin’ twelve-year-old. Uncle Davey’s been trying to get her to apply for universities, but she wants to come to Detroit and be a cop.”

“Like her cool cousin Gavin?”

“It’s a pipe dream, she’ll never fuckin’ make it,” Gavin assures, adamant of the fact. “She doesn’t have the spine for it. And she’s too into her Instagram and her celebrities or whatever the fuck most dumbass kids do at eighteen. She’s not cut out to be a cop, the academy’d eat her alive”

“Whereas _you_ decided it was all you wanted to be since you turned sixteen,” Eli ponders, giving the second, _proper_ smile that Gavin’s seen since the previous eve. He doesn’t care how fleeting it is, Gavin still counts it. “I remember, you used to interrupt my homework and get me to test you. It was cute. Sad,” he adds, and Gavin shoves him with his elbow. “But cute. You were a real dork.”

“Yeah, like you can talk, Mr. Robot.” And Gavin’s realised that, somehow, his ass of a cousin has managed to steer the conversation back to androids, and he just fucking knows what’s coming next.

“Tell me about him.”

Gavin’s stubborn. He won’t fucking crack. “About who, nutjob.”

“Your partner.”

Gavin’s a top-notch cop. No manipulative, scientist fuck is going to break him, not a chance. “What partner.”

“Your boyfriend. Tell me about him.”

Now, in Gavin’s defence, he’s never gushed before. He’s never really had an opportunity or a reason to; his past boyfriends were mediocre at best, or too short-lived for Gavin to have started to give a shit about them, or they were _Danny_. Gavin’s never gushed about anyone before, not really, and certainly not to Elijah fucking Kamski, Mr. Introvert extraordinaire. He still doesn’t know exactly which team Eli’s batting for. Hell, Gavin’s not entirely sure he even bats _for_ a team. He’d certainly never seen Eli with anyone when they were younger, and there’d never been any kind of talk in that ballpark on TV.

So, Gavin’s never gushed; never spewed information out at an alarming rate, with frenzied hand gestures and a sappy fucking tone of voice. He blames _that_ specific fact, and Marie’s champagne, and the knowledge that it’ll be another week at best before he sees R’s dumb fucking face again, for the _tidal wave_ of gushing that follows his cousin’s perfectly simple request.

And he blames Eli. Once again, in Gavin’s defence, the man _had_ fucking asked.

“–and he does this thing when he figures somethin’ out at a crime scene, like a little head tilt and it makes his hair go all bouncy, and then this one time no one could figure out how this perp had gotten into this high-end pawn shop, so R– R _fucking_ _climbs_ up the elevator shaft to see if someone could break in _that_ way, and–”

Eli, to his credit, listens to every word. He doesn’t interrupt or tell Gavin to _shut the fuck up already_ , like any sane person would, because yeah, Gavin’s talking _way_ too much and _way_ too fucking fast, but now that he’s started it’s like a fucking waterfall of all the shit he’s never talked about or asked about androids tumbling out of Gavin’s mouth, and he can’t fucking stop it.

“–the Ducati! He has a fucking Ducati, like what the fuck? Are androids supposed to drive a Ducati? He’s an adrenaline junkie, Eli, is that normal? It doesn’t sound fuckin’ normal– oh, shit, yeah, and do androids have, like, a built-in sense of fashion, because R and Connor are always dressed to the fucking nines, seriously, even at work, it’s fuckin’ weird–”

“Connor?”

Gavin stops for breath for the first time in… according to the clock above the doorway, fifteen fucking minutes. Jesus Christ. “Yeah, Connor. The dipshit you sent to the DPD, we’ve covered this already. He’s still workin’ there, haven’t been able to get rid of him.”

“What model is R? His number.”

“Uh, nine-hundred. RK nine-hundred.”

Something’s settled over Eli’s face, and Gavin’s not sure precisely what about it sets him on edge. But it does, and he is. “Why? He due for an upgrade or somethin’,” he jokes, because the sudden tension doesn’t feel right, not with the smell of turkey and stuffing and all the festivity and other shit going on around them.

Eli’s jaw is tight. And considering it’s such a big fucking jaw, Gavin can tell. “And his program has been overridden? Entirely?”

Gavin frowns. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s deviant. Far as I know, that asshole, what’s his name– _Markus_ did his thing and uh, overrode everythin’ on day one.”

He watches Eli’s shoulders relax, and his cousin gives another one of those smiles. This one doesn’t _quite_ reach his eyes, but Gavin takes it as a good sign.

“Why,” he feels compelled to ask, “what’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” Eli shakes his head, dismissive, “it’s nothing. Programming can sometimes pose a risk of being an obstacle in more advanced models. A _tenacious_ obstacle. But if your android has, as you say, deviated successfully,” he continues, “then I’d imagine that there’s nothing to be concerned about. The RK series has always been… tricky, when it comes to following their protocol.”

Gavin barks a laugh, “You’re tellin’ me, I have to fucking live with it.”

Both of Eli’s eyebrows raise, and Gavin inwardly pats himself on the back for being the one to put _that_ dumbass expression on _that_ crafty face. “You _live_ together? That’s quite a commitment–”

 _Way-to-go Gavin’s stupid fucking mouth_. “No, no, I just mean– he stays over, a lot, but no, we’re not _living_ together, it’s not like _that_ , we’re just–”

“Gavin Jacob Reed, are you _living with someone?”_

 _Oh fucking, fuckitty fuck._ Gavin whips around to face Robert, who’s cradling a large bowl of homemade cranberry sauce in one arm; spoon in hand and a pink **_Hot Stuff_**   apron over his torso. “No, no, pops, I’m not–”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were _living_ _with someone_ , Gavin, what the fuck–”

“No, I’m not–”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Eli says, tone gracious as ever, but he’s smirking that fucking smirk of his as he slinks away to help Aunt Mary lay the table. “Good luck, cousin.”

 _Eat shit and die_ , Gavin doesn’t say. Instead, he places the empty champagne flute to one side, braces himself, and then turns back to Robert. “I’m not livin’ with anyone, dad, Eli’s bein’ a dickwad. But, uh–”

“But!” Robert repeats gleefully, eyes shining as he continues to stir the cranberry mixture. “There’s a but! Okay, sorry,” he adds when he catches what must be a very pained expression on Gavin’s face, “I’m not interrupting, you were speaking, I’m shutting up. You were saying...?  _But_ …?” And he makes an eager gesture for Gavin to continue.

After a deep, much-needed breath, Gavin does. Not like he can avoid it now. “I’m seein’ someone. And it’s, uh… it’s a pretty big deal. Like, it’s gettin’ kind of serious–”

He’s cut off once again by Robert’s – Gavin’s not going to call it a _squeal_ , he’s just not, because his father is a grown fucking man – by Robert’s _exclamation_ _of excitement_ , and his old man drags him forward, crushing his chest against the cranberry bowl as he hugs him one-armed. “Gavin, that’s great, that’s so great! I knew, I fuckin’ knew, didn’t I, Carrie, didn’t I say–” he calls over to where Gavin’s step-mom is stood watch over five boiling vegetable pots at once, “–didn’t I say there was something different about him! Didn’t I say he looked happier than I’d seen him in the last few years!”

“I’m sure you did, sweetheart,” Carrie answers absently, and Gavin knows she’s not paying the slightest bit of attention. Food always takes precedence with Carrie Reed, and Gavin can fucking respect that.

Robert turns back to him, anyway; beaming and proud and genuinely excited, and _fuck_ , Gavin suddenly feels the reality of this crashing all over him. The reality that he _is_ happy. _Really_ fucking happy. And the reality that his dad looks really fucking happy, too. Overjoyed. Over the fucking moon.

Jesus, R should _be_ here.

“Yeah, uh, he’s cool. He’s great.”

“What’s his name?” And here come the questions that Eli hadn’t asked, and that Gavin has already answered tenfold.

“R. Well, R.K, but–”

“Oh, a cool nickname, he _sounds_ cool! What’s his actual name, though? Oh my God, _R_ – is his name Robert? That starts with R and it’s a great name!”

“No, it’s not Robert, you weirdo, Robert’s a terrible name.”

But Gavin knows he’ll have to bite the bullet at some point, and there’s no time like the fucking present. Most people have vacated the kitchen, anyway; fucked off to the dining room probably, to await the oncoming food or to find more booze. So Gavin steels himself, and looks his dad in the eye, and reminds himself that he doesn’t give a shit that R’s not human, no matter the outcome. _I would change nothing about you. Because I know you would change nothing about me._

“He’s an android. R.K comes from his initials, it’s just his name.”

Robert blinks, obviously taken aback for about two, maybe three seconds, before he continues vigorously stirring the cranberries. “Well, granted that’s not _quite_ as cool as the name Robert, but if it works, it works, right? So, what’s he like? What does he do? He better not be an ex-convict android, Gavin Reed, I’ve always worried that you’d end up with a criminal. The bad boys have _always_ been your type, don’t try and deny it, I remember your face the first time you saw Cillian Murphy in Peaky Blinders, with those blue eyes and all dressed up in those nice suits.”

Gavin shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling so fucking much that his jaw hurts. “Pops, he’s not a fuckin’ criminal, all right? He’s a cop, we work together.”

“Yes! Good! A cop is good, we like cops,” Robert rejoices, veering around Gavin to pour the cranberries into smaller bowls, but he keeps talking all the while. “A cop, I should have fucking guessed, it’s the uniform, isn’t it? I have to admit, when I first saw you in that sweet DPD get-up, I knew there’d be people all over you, you’d be fighting them off. Now, Gav, seriously, what’s he like? R.K, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. R.K.”

“Okay, good, R.K. Now, is he nice? Can he cook? Does he have a car? Does he watch _movies_? I never know with androids, do they actually _watch_ TV or can they just play movies in their heads? You’d think I’d know, being a scientist’s brother-in-law and a bio-whatever engineer’s uncle, but honestly, I just switch whenever Jakub starts yakking on about that stuff–”

He keeps talking throughout dinner, and rarely stops for a breather, even when he’s chewing. When he _does_ , Gavin answers what he can. He sits between Robert and Eli at a table of seven Reeds and three Kamskis, and he avidly ignores his cousin’s smirk whilst Robert cycles between asking Gavin about R and asking Eli for android titbits that Gavin himself can’t give.

And when Carrie whisks out the dessert, Gavin seizes the opportunity, because everyone’s preoccupied enough that they don’t scold him for sneaking his phone out of his pocket.

  
_\-----------------------------_ Sunday 25th December, 2039 (PM) _\-----------------------------_

 **Gavin**  
_(13:45)_  
I love you

 **R**  
_(13:45)_  
Is this an imposter? Gavin Reed has assured me  
that holiday sentimentalities are beneath him.  
Please return this phone to him ASAP.

  
Gavin grins down at the screen, and it speaks volumes for how fucking happy he must look, that Robert doesn’t tell him to put the phone away when he spots Gavin typing beneath the table.

 _  
_**R**  
_(13:45)_  
I love you, as well.

 _(13:46)_  
Merry Christmas, Gavin.

 **Gavin**  
_(13:46)_  
merry fucking christmas, sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Merry Christmas to all you sweethearts, too! Nine days ago, I set myself a challenge to write every day until Christmas, and I’ve honestly loved every second. It’s been totally worth it, and your kudos and comments have felt like an early Christmas Present.
> 
> I hope you all have a great holiday!


End file.
